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THE 





REPEALERS. 


A NOVEL. 

BY THE COUNTESS OF BLESSINGTON. 

n 


I 


Some popular chief, 

More noisy than the rest, but cries halloo. 

And in a trice the bellowing herd come out ; 

The gates are harr’d, the ways are barricado’d : 

And one and all’s the word : true cocks o’ th’ game ! 

They never ask for what, or whom they fight ; 

But turn ’em out, and show ’em but a foe; 

Cry Liberty ! and that’s a cause for quarrel. 

, Dryden’s Spanish Friar. 


IN TWO VOLUMES. 

VOL. I. 


PHILADELPHIA: 

CAREY, LEA, & BLANCHARD, CHESTNUT STREET. 


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THE REPEALERS. 




CHAPTER I. 

Hail land whose verdure with the emerald vies, 

Whose sons are manly, generous — all — but wise ; 

Where hearts are warm, but heads, alas ! are hot. 

And prudence, goodly prudence, worshipp’d not. 

Gem of the west, set in a stormy sea. 

As if e’en Nature meant thee to be free ; 

The waves like barriers guarding thy green shore. 

Or ready still to bear thee commerce o’er. 

Say, why has Nature smiled on thee in vain. 

When still thy reckless sons her gifts profane, 

And give to license what is freedom’s due. 

Freedom, that hapless Erin never knew. 

And ne’er can know, till reason points the way. 

And passion yields to her benignant sway. 

Unpublished Poem. 

“ OcH ! Jim, is this the way you come home to me?”" 
said Grace Cassidy, a young and pretty Irishwoman, to 
her intoxicated husband, who, staggering into the kitchen 
where she was seated by the fire, became almost sobered 
by the look of plaintive suffering with which she regarded 
him. 

“ Arrah ! be aisy, Grace, and don’t be angry with me; 
sure it’s only a little dhrop too much I’ve taken, and the 
air has got the bhetter of me — faith and troth that’s all ; 
and it shan’t happen again, if it vexes you, my Colleen 
dhas, for sure I’d never let the dhrop into my mouth 
again, rather than see you, with your pale face and 


4 


watery eyes, rocking yourself on the boss^ and looking as 
if you had small hopes of my mending. If you scoulded 
me, or were sulky with me, I would not mind it so 
much ; but when I do wrong, you have a way of looking 
at me, Grace, that breaks the heart of me, though some- 
how or other, and more’s the pity, I forget it when I meet 
them boys, and when they coaxes me to go into the Cat 
and Bagpipes.” 

“ Och ! Jim, and is this the way you keep the Bible 
oath you took to Father Cahill last Easther Sunday, that 
you would not dhrink a dhrop in any shebean-house for 
a year and a day ? Think of your precious soul, Jim, 
and think of the dismal thoughts that comes into my head, 
when I am here all alone by myself, and see your chair 
empty right forenent me at th’other side of the fire.” 

“ Faith and soul, Grace, you make me quite unaisy; 
but one thing I have to say — I did not dhrink a dhrop in 
the shebean-house, for I put my head clean out of the 
window while I was dhrinking, so my oath is safe ; and 
if it come to the worst, I would not go to purgatory for 
the oath neither, for I only kissed my thumb when Fa- 
ther Cahill give me the Bible, so you see all is safe, my 
Colleen.” 

“ Jim dear, will you never harken to raison ?” replied 
poor Grace ; “ and do you know that what you’re now 
telling me of kissing your thumb, is the worst of all, for 
it plainly shows me you were deceaving the priest, and 
me too, when you took the oath ; for sure it is not the 
kissing the book, or the thumb, that makes the difference, 
but the intention. And isn’t it a sin and a wickedness 
to go to tie oneself up with a thought of slipping out of 
the oath all the while ? And sure the putting your head 
out of the window at the shebean-house to dhrink, is just 
the same wicked deceaving of God and man ; and it’s 
such false ways, that breaks the heart of me, and dhrives 
away all the confidence that I wish to keep about be- 


A tabouret of straw. 


5 


lieving you. Thruth is thruth, Jim dear, and there is no 
pace without it ; and I would rather you took the dhrop 
for months, though God knows the thought of it falls like 
burning lead on my heart, than that you took such mane 
ways to falsify your oath. How is it, Jim dear, that I, 
who love you betther than ever I loved myself, and you, 
who say you love me — that we, who have but one heart, 
can have two minds ? I scorn a lie to God or man, and 
you think you’re chating the devil when you’re kissing 
thumbs, and dhrinking out of the window at the shebean- 
house.” 

“ Well, na bochlish, Grace, what’s done can’t be un- 
lone ; but you’ll see I’ll be a good boy, and this time I’ll 
^iss no thumbs, but on my bended knees promise, before 
jrod and you, Grace, that a dhrop of spirits, good or bad, 
.han’t enter my lips for a year and a day ; and who knows 
mt once I’m used to doing without the creathure, I can 
lave it off altogether ?” 

Jim keptto his resolution so well, that Grace now began 
to think that all her troubles were over, and that her hus- 
band had become the same sober, industrious man that he 
had been while courting her. Everything seemed to pros- 
per around them ; their cow was the sleekest, their pig the 
fattest, their little patch of garden-ground the best kept, 
and their cottage the cleanest, in the whole village of 
Collogan, one of the most romantic spots in the county 
of Waterford. With pride did Grace rub the windows 
bright, and place in them a few plants given her by the 
gardener of Spring-mount ; and when Jim returned from 
his work in the evening, he found a cheerful turf-fire, a 
tidily swept hearth, an ample wicker-basket of laughing 
potatoes, with wooden piggins, emulating in whiteness 
the milk with which they were filled, and a plate of but- 
ter, or kiikime,"^ awaiting him, with the smiling welcome 

* Exrkime, eggs boiled hard, and chopped, and then mixed 
with fresh butter, a favourite luxury among the peasantry ii 
^e south of Ireland. 

1 * 


6 


of his now happy wife, who smoothed her shining hair, 
and arranged her neat mob-cap, that her best looks might 
greet his arrival. 

Things were in this happy state, when Jim was sum- 
moned to attend the election at Dungarvan, and Grace 
saw him depart with a heavy heart. He repeatedly pro- 
mised her that he would not “ dhrink a dhrop of anything 
sthronger than the Blackwather cyder, and little of that 
same, and that he would vote as the masther tould him.” 

After a week’s absence, during which her mind was 
filled with forebodings, Grace saw her husband return, 
and was cheered by the assurance he gave her, that he 
had rigidly kept his promise. 

“ As for the dhrink cuishlamachree, the devil a bit did 
I mind the not taking it, for the fancy for it is gone clean 
out of my head ; but for the vote, och my Colleen, it went 
hard against my heart and conschience to give it to the 
Sassenach, when I saw the real old Milesian Repalers 
in want of it; but I thought of my promise to you and 
the masther, and I voted for the Englisher. It’s myself 
that’s quite entirely bothered, now that I see and hear 
how bad things are going on. Sure one knows nothing 
at all at all here of what’s happening, and how the En- 
glish has kilt this counthry by taking away the Parliment, 
and all the good ould Irish laws that was made for us 
and giving us English laws that’s only fit for them- 
selves. Faith, they might as well take away the praties 
from us, and give us bread in place of ’em, which, to my 
thinking, would be a bad swop any way. Here was t, 
working, and eating, and dhrinking, and sleeping, as if 
nothing at all was the mather, while the poor counthry 
is intirely mint, and I’d never know a word about it, 
only that the Repalers let the cat out of the bag. Och ! 
Grace asthore, it’s a cruil thing to be living in pace, and 
never knowing so much as a word of the throubles that’s 
going on in the world.” 

“ Well, Jim, that bates every thing I ever heard; why 
I think it’s a blessing to be in pace, especially as it’s no 


7 




use to be throubling ourselves about what we can’t help ; 
and if there’s so much trouble in the world, we ought to 
thank God we have escaped it.” 

“ Faith and troth, so I said to myself at first,” said 
Jim; “but the Repalers showed me the difference, and 
now I feel quite bothered any how, and won’t be contint 
till we’ve got our parliament back, and got all the Sasse- 
nachs out of the counthry. Sure that’ill be a great day 
for the Irish!” 

“ Whisth ! Jim, honey, what quare notions you’ve got 
in your head ; sure it’s almost as bad as dhrink. It makes 
me quite unaisy to see you bothering your poor brains after 
such a fashion. If the counthry is in throuble, sure the 
great gentlemen that took the parliament over the water 
to teach it English, knows better what to do for it than 
a set of poor spalpeens, who only do what the Repalers 
tell ’em, and don’t understand what made the vexation, 
nor what will cure it, any more than you or me.” 

“Och! fie upon you, Grace; is that the way you’d 
give up liberty ? Sure, the Repalers said as how life is 
only a curse without liberty, and here we have been 
ever since we were born, ay, faith and a long time be- 
fore, in all this throuble, just bekase we have no liberty. 
Liberty, Grace a-vourneen, is just like what we imagine 
of the grand ould times in Ireland ; it’s something that 
we don’t quite rightly understand, but which, we believe, 
must be all the finer for that. Faith I’ll try to turn it A 

over in my mind, and once I can make it out. I’ll tell ^ 

you all I can about it, for I think you have more gump- 
tion in such matters than I have, bekase you never get 
in a passion about ’em.” 


8 


CHAPTER II. 

O Liberty ! the purest gift from Heaven, 

That ever was to erring mortals given; 

The heart and mind that’s formed to worsliip thee 
Must be from every groveling passion free ; 

The Patriot would thy noble precepts use, 

While Demagogues but know thee, to abuse. 

Unpublished Poem. 

“ Well, Jim dear,” asked Grace, “ have you yet right- 
ly made out what was perplexing you last night? I’ve 
been thinking about it, and it seems to me that we have 
been as happy and continted as ever two creatures was, 
and hasn’t our ‘people, and all our relations been the 
same before us ? and now you want to persuade me that 
we haven’t been happy together ! Jim, Jim, I fear you’re 
a hard-hearted ungrateful man, and no good can come of 
it, to forget all the blessings we have had from Provi- 
dence and the paceful happy days we have spent to- 
gether.” 

“ Grace a-vourneen, it is not that at all I mane. I 
^ know God is good, and I don’t forget that we have had 
some happy days ; but if we had liberty, it would be 
quite a different thing, and that’s what I want.” 

“ And what’s liberty, Jim dear ? for I can’t rightly make 
y, ^ out what you mane.” 

KT- “Why, liberty, cuishlamachree, manes to do every- 
thing we like ourselves, and hinder every one else from 
doing it. It also manes to prevent every mother’s soul 
in Ireland from going to church, and making them go to 
mass, whether they like it or no. Wouldn’t this be a 
great day for the Irish, Grace ? And all this will happen, 
if we only vote for Repalers, pay no tithes, and always 
keep repating that the English are the cause of all our 
throubles. I wish you had heard all that the Repalers 
said, for I’m sure’twould have quite convinced you, as it 
did me, and all the others who kept bawling and screech- 


9 


ing out all \he time, they were so delighted to hear that we 
were all quite mint entirely clear and clean, and had only 
now found friends to tell us so ; but when 1 thry to think 
of all they said, I can’t make out the half of it, and don’t 
feel at ail as I did when all the gorsoons were shouting 
and bawling round ’em. But one thing I’m determined 
on, the divil a tithe I’ll ever pay; not that I begrudge 
the durty thrifle to Parson Disnay, but just out of charity, 
to keep them poor hereticks from being lost entirely, for 
if the parsons don’t get any tithe, sure they must turn 
from being Protestants and come back to the thrue faith, 
the ould religion, which will save their poor sinful souls; 
and Parson Disnay and his coadjutor Parson Wells are 
too good men not to be turned to the right road. In like 
manner the masther will be saved, for if we pay him no 
rint, and I’m sure ’twill come to this point in time, faith 
he’ll be obliged to turn Catholic, or else leave the coun- 
thry, and that’ll be the making of him.” 

“ Och ! Jim, who on earth has been putting all this 
nonsense into your head ? Sure it’s a sin and wickedness 
for them that turns many a good heart, and an honest 
mind, from the straight high road of truth to the crooked 
by-roads of falsehood and cunning ! Isn’t it enough for 
poor ignorant people like us to do our duty, and follow 
our own religion, without throubling ourselves about the 
religion of others ? And sure that religion can’t be bad 
that makes the good masther, and Parson Disnay and his 
coadjutor, do us all the good in their power, without ever 
so much as axing if we go to church or to mass.” 

“ Indeed and troth Grace that’s thrue, for you, ma vour- 
neen ; but still if all them heretics as, goes to church can- 
not be saved like us after they die, oughtnlt we to thry 
to turn ’em ? and as the Roman religion is the ould 
ancient and real religion, we must make it the only one. 
Och ! Grace honey, it would do your heart good to hear 
the fine discourse I hard from Tim Fogarty, the school- 
master at Abbey side, whin he was converting Dick 
Nowlan. Dick, like a poor ignorant creathure as he is, 


10 


said that the Protestant religion was the best, for says he, 
‘ Isn’t it the reformed religion, and a’n’t ye all crying out 
for reform from morning till night, and here’s a reformed 
religion ready made to your hand?’ — ‘Why then bad 
luck to you, ye spalpeen,’ says Tim, ‘ sure the Roman 
is the only old thrue faith ; didn’t you see or hear of Paul’s 
Epistle (which manes a letther) to the Romans?’ — ‘ Yis, 
I did, sure enough,’ says Dick. — ‘ Well, then,’ says Tim, 
‘ did ye ever see or hear of Paul, or any other of the 
Saints, writing a letter to the Protestants? Now, Dick, 
what have you got to say?’ — Faith, Grace honey, that 
foolish fellow, Dick Nowlan, was dumb founded, and 
could not say bo to a goose ; and who, afther that, could 
doubt the Roman Catholic religion being the only thrue 
one ; and who could help wishing to convart the good 
mastlier and Parson Disnay, and the rest of the good 
people, to it ?” 

“ Well, Jim, sure, allowing that ours is the oldest re- 
ligion, that does not make it the best. I don’t know 
enough of book-learning to be able to chop Latin with 
Tim Fogarty, to prove whether the Saints ever wrote to 
the Protestants, as they did to the Romans ; but faith, I 
know w^ell enough that many things are none the better 
for being ould. Look at the ould castle on the hill, with 
its little narrow peep-holes for windows, its dark pas- 
sages, and inconvenient rooms, and tell me, if it is to be 
compared with the fine elegant house at Spring-mount, 
where the broad, clear, bright windows, let in the light 
of heaven — the halls and lobbies so genteel, and the rooms 
so beautiful, that I never could be tired of looking at them. 
To be sure, when the ould castle was built, I’m tould 
that they were forced to make it so sthrong bekase the 
people were always fighting and attacking one another, 
so that they were more desirous to keep enemies out than 
to let the fine cheerful daylight in ; and also the poor 
people had no glass for their windows. I’m told, in 
those ould bad times ; sure we ought to be thankful that 
we have the luck to live in betther days. Now, I’m 


11 


thinking, Jim agrah, that the ould Roman religion, like 
the ould castle, was only fit for the ould times in which 
they were made, and that the Reformed religion, like 
Spring-mount house, is the best for the present time : 
not that I would wish to forsake the creed in which I 
was brought up, but I would like to let other people fol- 
low their own wishes in going whichever road they liked 
on the same journey we must all go. Sure there’s different 
roads from this to Dungarvan — some thinks one road 
pleasanter, and some thinks another; wouldn’t it be 
mighty foolish to quarrel for this ? — and sure isn’t it twice 
worse to thry to interfere with people for choosing the 
road they like best to heaven ?” 

“ Be my soul, Grace, there’s some raison in what you 
say, but if them that knows the rights of the question say 
that no soul can be saved that passes through any other 
gate but the Catholic, wouldn’t it be a pity to lave ’em 
jn the wrong path?” 

“ Jim, to my mind it is betther to thry and keep what 
we believe to be the right path ourselves, and lave the 
rest to God. He best knows, and we never can be wrong 
if we believe He will show his mercy to those who may 
have made a mistake in their journey to him.” 

“ Faith, Grace, you have a way of coming over me, 
that knocks clean out of my head all the fine speechafying 
I have been listening to. When I heard the Repalers, I 
thought there was not a word to be said against ’em ; but 
now I hear you, I forget what it was they said that made 
the heart jump in my breast, and the angry thoughts 
come into my head. When I heard ’em, I felt as if a 
thrumpet was sounding in my ears, and that I could kill 
hundreds for the parliament and the ould religion ; and 
when they dhrove us all mad with the burning words 
they spoke, and then thried to throw could water on us, 
be telling us to be quiet, to disperse, and go home decent- 
ly, be my soul 1 thought it was like lighting a great fire, 
and covering it over with ever so much wet slack, and 
telling it not to burn up, when you know, Grace, it 


12 


would be sure to blaze out soon after, and difficult would 
it be for the same hands that lighted it to quench it. Now 
when you talk to me, asthore, with your own quiet, 
down-right earnest words, it seems to me as if I was list- 
" ening to the fife made out of a reed that Thedy Mulvany 
used to play upon when he was tending the masther’s 
sheep on the hills : and that same fife used to often make 
a fool of me, bekase somehow or other, when it came on 
me from the distance, it was so soft and pleasant, that it 
made me look around me on the beautiful heavens, the 
quiet river, stealing along like time, making small noise, 
but still always going away from us ; the green trees, 
^ looking so proud, and yet returning the salutes of the 
wind by gentle bows, just as the masther and the family 
do of a Sunday to the poor people. The bleating of the 
sheep, and the moans of the cows, all seemed to me more 
pleasant, though the tears came into my eyes, I couldn’t 
tell for what; and you were in my mind all the while ; 
and now, when I hear your own sweet voice raisoning 
with me, the fife and all of them things comes back to 
me, and I feel as if I couldn’t kill a fly, but would save 
- all the world if I could.” 

A mutual embrace followed Jim’s confession, and be- 
fore they retired to their rustic couch, he had promised 
Grace to leave politics to the Repalers, and to be happy 
as heretofore. 


CHAPTER III. 

’Tis wonderful, what may be wrought out of their discontent, 
now that their souls are topful of offence . — King John. 

Notwithstanding Jim’s promises to abandon politi- 
cal, and to think only of civil economy, poor Grace soon 
found that when he attended the markets on Saturdays, 
he might be seen not only with open ears, but with open 



13 

mouth also, devouring the inflated and inflammatory 
news poured forth to the ignorant multitude ; and which 
produced much the same effect on their fiery spirits, that 
their favourite beverage, whisky, would have done, if 
thrown on a blazing turf fire. It took her hours, nay, 
days, to neutralize the poison imbibed in a few minutes 
from the mouthing orators, who always address the 
imaginations of their hearers, and never their reason. 

All who know Ireland are aware, that in proportion to 
the exuberance of imagination in her sons, is the defi- 
ciency of reason and judgment; and her wily orators fail 
not to take advantage of this peculiarity. A few spirit- 
stirring words, echoed by shouts, can at any time drive 
this excitable people to madness ; and the high courage, 
which forms one of their most marked characteristics, 
renders them reckless of consequences. This same un- 
daunted and undauntable courage, that made the Irish re- 
giments proverbial for their valour, winning for them the 
rarely-sought distinction of being chosen for forlorn-hope 
service, becomes the instrument of their destruction when 
misdirected. 

Well do I remember a discharged soldier of the 88th, 
who had been as remarkable for bravery and discipline 
in his regiment, as he had unfortunately become for 
habits of intoxication and insubordination in his native 
village, answering a person who remonstrated with him 
on this subject, “ Och ! Sir, you are right ; what a pity 
it is we should ever have peace ! If the war lasted, this 
could not happen ; I would have been taking towns, 
scaling fortresses, dreaming of glory at night and win- 
ning it by day. Instead of drinking all night and quar- 
relling all day, as at present, I would be fighting for the 
honour of that same Old England, of which we used to 
be so proud that it was our rallying word, and of which 
we are now so jealous that we are crying out to be sepa- 
rated from her. Och ! Sir, all this comes from the mis- 
fortune of having peace, and having so much idle time 
on our hands that we don’t know what to be at. I often 
think, if I had only the same work, even with the pipe- 

VOL. I. 2 


14 


clay, that I used to have to do, it would keep the devil 
out of me ; for when I was with my regiment I never 
thought of anything but glory and plunder, and cared not 
a pin about all that now bothers my brains from morning 
till night, since the Repealers have opened my eyes. 
Faith, Sir, we poor devils always require a commanding 
officer to keep us in order ; and had we but one of our 
old officers in every district, to tell us now and then what 
we ought to, think and do, we would not fall into the 
hands of the Repealers, who are the only people, God 
help us ! who take the trouble of directing, or misdirect- 
ing us. Sir, they drive us mad, for with a noggin of 
whisky in my stomach, and one of their speeches in my 
head, I feel like a mad bull goaded on by firebrands, and 
am ready to rush on my own destruction, provided it 
could destroy those they are always pointing out to our 
vengeance. But, when they have maddened us, then to 
hear them telling us to be quiet and orderly, sure it’s 
enough to bother and perplex us entirely, and I lose all 
patience with them. Sir, it’s a terrible thing to have a 
sort of a heart that is ready to jump up and fight on the 
least occasion, and not to have any natural enemies to 
fight with; it makes one quarrel with one’s own friends, 
and then when the anger is gone out of the head, one 
feels foolish and ashamed, because it’s so hard to remem- 
ber what the falling out was about. As long as we were 
at war with the French, everything went well ; they like 
fighting as well as we do, and kept ns constantly em- 
ployed. Sir, they were our natural enemies, and when 
once we had a good set-to, we bore no ill-blood ; but. 
Sir, when we quarrel with the English, it’s like quarrel- 
ling with our own blood-relations, and W'e feel more bitter 
after every fight, because we know we are partly in the 
wrong, and they know the same, and neither, like rela- 
tions, will allow it. Another thing. Sir, is, that lately 
the Repealers have been attacking and abusing a man I 
cannot help liking, ay, by my soul, and loving too, as if 
he was my brother ; a man. Sir, that is as brave as an 
Irishman, as honourable as an Englishman, and as chival- 


15 


rous as a Frenchman. A man, Sir, that I have fought in 
the same field with, and that left as handsome a leg at 
Waterloo, as ever won a lady’s heart. I cannot hear this 
noble man run down, knowing his courage and his gene- 
rosity as I do ; and this has opened my eyes to the blar- 
ney, and blow-coal attacks of the Repealers ; and yet, 
Sir, once I have taken a glass too much of that fiery 
whisky, and heard their still more fiery speeches, I lose 
all command over myself, and God knows how it will 
end.” 

There was something prophetic in poor M‘Murogh’s 
last observation ; for he soon after met a violent death in 
a fray with the police, into which the excited state of his 
feelings, worked upon by seditious counsels, had hurried 
him : and his death was but one of the many to which 
evil advice and ill-directed courage have led in the unfor- 
tunate country where it occurred. 

Each market-day produced an increase of Jim’s mood- 
iness ; his feature’s seldom relaxed into a smile, except 
when Grace sought to excite one by her playful sallies, 
and then the smile passed over his lips like a ripple on 
the surface of the clear and rapid stream in front of his 
cottage, while the depth below was unbroken. 

Often did Grace say to him, “ Och, Jim darlint, I fear 
it’s the want of the dhrop you’ve been used to lately, 
that makes 5^ou seem so down-hearted. Sure it’s myself 
that’s sorry I made you take the oath against it, for when 
I see you looking so gloomy, and taking no pleasure in 
anything that’s going on, it break’s the heart of me.” 

“ Then it’s a sorrowful day to me, Grace a-vourneen, 
that I should be bringing throuble to your tender heart ; 
I wish I could forget all the vexing thoughts that have 
got lodged in my mind, for I’m sorely perplexed, and 
feel always as if I was expecting to hear some great news 
or other, and that things can’t go on as they are. This 
unsettles and makes me feel discouraged for my work. 
Instead of thinking for the year to come, and laying up 
our provision for the winter, I am thinking that, before 
that, some great throuble will take place, and that it’s no 


16 


good to lay by for the future. Indeed, the Repalers 
told me as much, and therefore I have not the heart to 
work as I used. When I look at the beautiful flowers 
you have taken so much pains to rear, I think who will 
be one day pulling ’em, or perhaps thrampling ’em under 
foot : and that our cabbages, carrots, and onions will one 
day be canted for the tithes, as well as the cow and the 
pig that we have taken such care of. Och! Grace, isn’t 
this enough to make a man gloomy ? and can you wonder 
that I am all no how ?” 

“ Why should the cow, or the pig, or the vegetables, 
be canted for the tithes now, Jim, when they never were 
before ?” asked Grace : “ Haven’t w^e got eight pounds 
in the bank, before us in the world ? and have’nt I got 
thirty shillings in the chest ; besides what the house- 
keeper at Spring-mount owes me for the cream cheeses, 
'and all the hanks of fine yarn I have been spinning ? So 
you see, Jim dear, we have plenty of money to pay the 
tithes, if they rise ever so much. And don’t we know 
that good Parson Disnay never raises ’em unjustly ?” 

“ Grace, you don’t understand my throuble,” said 
Jim ; “ it isn’t the money I’m fretting about, as I know 
we have enough to pay all; and even if we hadn’t. Par- 
son Disnay, or the masther, never would distress us ; but 
if I pay tithes when all the counthry is up and sworn not 
to pay, I’ll be ashamed to show my face among the boys : 
indeed as it is, they laugh and sneer at me, and say I 
have noi the courage of a man, let alone an Irishman, 
and that I’m afraid of you, Grace, and this vexes me.” 

“Jim honey, what you say goes to my heart — sure I 
thought you had more raison than to mind what a set of 
drunken disorderly spalpeens, like them that follows the 
Repalers, would say to you ; and when you know you 
are doing what is right, how can you listen to their bal- 
derdash? Faith, Jim asthore, I thought you had more 
gumption in you ; sure it’s a pity for both our sakes that 
I was mistaken.” 


17 


CHAPTER IV. 

“ Dangerous conceits are, in their natures, poisons. 

Which at the first are scarce found to distaste ; 

But, with a little act upon tlie blood, 

Burn like the mines of sulphur.” 

A MAN must have either a better head or heart than 
falls to the lot of most, who can pardon the superiority 
of a wife, however meekly she may use it. Poor Jim 
Cassidy’s head was like the generality of those of his t 
countrymen of that class, not remarkable for its reasoning 
powers ; hence he was on equal ground with his compa- 
nions, while with Grace, he felt he never had the best of 
an argument; nay, he usually found hers so unanswer- 
able, that he speedily arrived at the conclusion that she 
was terrible cute, which in Irish phraseology means 
clever. From the moment this discovery forced itself 
on his mind, he began to respect her more, but to love 
her less ; a change of sentiment, that no loving heart like 
hers could be satisfied with. It was the facility with 
which Grace refuted the arguments of the Repealers, that 
conveyed the idea of her superiority to Jim; it was less 
mortifying to think her terrible cute, than to acknowledge 
himself terrible botherheacled ; it ‘was therefore a relief 
to him to find himself listened to with attention by his 
companions, over whom his sobriety gave him a cousin 
derable advantage. 

This cemented his increased intimacy with them, and 
drew him still more frequently from his home. Their 
enthusiasm, excited by inebriation and the artful recapi-^ 
tulation of real and imaginary wrongs, worked on the 
morbid feelings of poor Jim, until he believed himself 
the wretched slave they asserted him to be, and that it 
had become his duty to burst the chains which enslaved 
him. 

When he returned from a meeting where sedition and 
whisky had been doing their demoralizing work, both 

2 '^ 


18 


freely distributed by the emissaries of the agitators, poor 
Grace has been astonished and grieved by his declama- 
tion. “ Millions in chains, a starving and oppressed 
people, Saxon tyrants, no tithes, and repeal of the Union,” 
were become familiar words in the mouth of poor Jim ; 
and blood, and bloody, were the terms applied to every 
demonstration of a power, whose mildness and clemency 
was by most people considered blameable, in so long 
permitting its justice to be called in question. 

“ Yes, I’m a slave, a chained slave, you’re a slave, 
Grace, and we’re all slaves,” used Jim to say ; “ the 
nigers ar’n’t half so ill-used as we are ; obliged to pay the 
teachers of a religion we abominate ; obliged to submit 
to have our parliament carried into a land of strangers, 
where our lamentations and tears, sent over through our 
reform members, only make the English laugh. They 
laugh at the brogue, instead of thrying to find out where 
the shoe pinches. Ar’n’t we all starving, and crushed 
by the plough of oppression? sure it calls forvingince 
and blood!” 

“ Och! Jim, your poor head is surely turned. How 
can you say you are a slave, or that them boys you go 
with are slaves, when they are free to run wild over the 
counthry, making mischief at every side ? How can you 
say you’re starving, when you know you ate a fine piece 
of pork with plenty of greens and potatoes for your din- 
ner, and that we have a tub full of salt mate, and four 
flitches of bacon in the house, with the loft full of pota- 
toes ? Sure, only I’m too unhappy to laugh at anything 
now, I could laugh enough to hear you say you’re a slave 
and starving; and sure this must be what makes the 
k, English people, who like the plain truth, laugh whenever 
^hem repaling members tells ’em such rhaumeish.* Now 
hear me, Jim: if half what them Repalers tell you, and 
the boys that goes shouting after them, was thrue,wouldn’t 
it be decenter, and kinder, not to make bad worse, but 
to give you all good advice, and encourage you to be 


• • V 


Exaggeration. 


19 


quiet? And sure, if we have throubles to bear in Ire- 
land, and every place has its share, wouldn’t it be wiser 
for them Eepalers that can blow hot and could with the 
same breath, to make you all keep quiet, and orderly to 
your work, and be able to tell the Lord Leftenant, or the 
king himself — ‘ You see, rny Lord, how quiet the poor 
Irishmen are in all their throubles, they pay all they can, 
neither burn houses, nor flog, nor murder; and ever since 
you gave ’em mancipation, they have been thrying to 
show how much they feel the compliment. Sure, if they 
behave so well, and that there’s no complaint against ’em 
when they have cause for complaint, your Lordship will 
take away their throubles, and put, in a good word for 
’em to the king.’ What could be said against this, Jim? 
don’t you think it would be better than having murders, 
floggings, burnings, and sociations going on at every side, 
so that if we have throubles in Ireland, and ask the help 
of the Lord Leftenant, or the king, sure they can stop our 
mouths, by saying, ‘ Arrah ! be aisy, you ill-behaved 
spalpeens; sure you don’t know how to be grateful. 
Didn’t I give you mancipation, and ar’n’t you twice worse 
ever since? and now ar’n’t you raving mad for repale, 
which is just one as if you said you were determined to 
do all the mischief you could?’ Sure, Jim, honey, for 
Ireland to thry to do without England, is just as if you 
and I thried to do without the good masther that supports 
us. No, Jim, I’m afraid there’s no honesty in them 
people that works you all up to madness, and then tells 
you to be quiet. I think, God forgive me if I’m wrong, 
that what they mane is to make you all furious, and then, 
when all your madness is known at every side, to be able 
to say to the Lord Leftenant, ‘ Now, my Lord, you see 
what a state they’re in, and it’s only me that can make 
’em be quiet. If I say the word, they’ll be aisy; so 
make me a judge, or a great lordr and then I’ll keep 
them mad Irish under my thumb for evermore ; but if 
you don’t, faith they’ll ruin themselves downright to 
spite you,’ ” 

“ Well, Grace, haven’t we tried everything to get our 


20 


rights, just as we waited so many long years to get man- 
cipation, which the English never gave us, nor never 
would give us, as the Repalers say, if we had not kicked 
iip such a row, and frightened ’em into it.” 

“ No, Jim dear, ye haven’t tried every way, for ye 
never tried to deserve a good character, which, to* my 
poor thinking, would be the safest, and the pleasantest 
way too, to earn good treatment ; for sure if even it does 
not succeed in getting justice, it laves the comfort, and a 
great one it is, Jim, of having deserved it. What do the 
Repalers gain for Ireland, Jim agrah ? Mistrust and dis- 
like, instead of confidence and'pity ; for sure the warm 
hearts and generous feelings of our poor misguided coun- 
trymen, if they were really known, would be valued ; 
but England hears only of their crimes, and, more’s the 
pity, can hear nothing of their virtues. Is it a wonder, 
then, that the English think us savages, when every ship 
takes over to them fresh and frightful stories of all the 
cruel and wicked things the boys are always doing? 
Faith, Jim, I think them that calls themselves our friends, 
are our worst enemies. Is it like friends to be always 
telling ye that ye’re slaves, that ye’re trampled on, that 
ye have none of your rights, and that ye’re starving, 
when the most part of ye have plenty of wholesome food 
in your stomachs, and more than plenty of the wicked 
potheen in your heads ? No, Jim, a thrue friend would 
raison with ye, and say, ‘Be aisy and decent, boys, and 
show the English how well ye can behave, even when 
ye have cause to be discontented.’ This will be an 
honour and a credit to Ireland, and England will then be 
ashamed not to do ye justice. But, no ; your pretended 
friends maddens ye with burning words, that, like the 
fiery whisky, puts all raison out of your heads, and an* 
ger and desperation into your hearts ; — and mind my 
words, and sorrowfully I sav them, no good can come of 
all this.” 

“ Can you deny, Grace, that we got mancipation by 
making such a row in the counthry, that they were afraid 
to refuse us ?” 


21 


“Faith, Jim, I can’t believe it, and I don’t wish to 
believe it. I’d rather think they gave it to us because 
they believed it was all we wanted to make us contented; 
and so ye were all saying from morning till night ; ye 
did not speak a word of Repaling then, and them that 
guides ye said the mancipation would give every bless- 
ing. But no sooner did ye get it, than your bad advisers 
turned round, and instead of thanking them that gave it 
to ye, many of them, as I’m tould, acting against their 
judgments in so doing, they only say, ‘No thanks to ye. 
We’ve got it by frightening ye, and now we’ve found 
out the way, we’ll ask for something fresh every year, 
till we’ve bothered ye all, and tired ye out, and then we 
will get what we want for ourselves and our own rela- 
tions, and desire the fools we have been driving mad so 
long to be quiet, and do as they are bid.’ Faith, Jim, 
the way as the Repalers uses ye, reminds me of the pup- 
pet-show I saw at Dungarvan, when one man pulled the 
wires, and made all the little puppets jump, act, and fight 
as he liked. All the people looked at the puppets, and 
were surprised what movements they were making; but 
I minded the showman pulling the wires, and think of 
him every time I see or hear the Repalers working ye 
up to madness, or ordering ye to be aisy, just as it serves 
their convenience at the time.” 


CHAPTER V. 

Erin, thy verdant sea-girt shore 

Was never made for slaves to tread, 

Though changed are now the days of yore, 

When monarchs for thee fought and bled. 

Old Song, 

“ Tell me, Grace a-vourneen,” said Jim, “when you 
hear the fine songs that describe how grand and great 
Ireland was before she was thrampled upon by the English, 
don’t you feel your heart rising to your throat, and the 


22 


tears coming into your eyes ? If you, a woman, feel this 
for the poor ould counthry, what must men feel ? Och ! 
the Repalers are right ; there’s something in our hearts 
that won’t let us be contint while we are slaves; for 
haven’t I seen men, able and willing to fight too, cry like 
girls when they first begin to love, at hearing one of the 
ould cronauns of the counthry sung, with its dismal, but 
sweet music, and its thrue words about our past glory 
and present slavery.” 

“ Jim, you make me angry to hear you talk of slavery. 
I won’t allow you’re a slave, or that I am the wife of a 
slave. You pay your rent, we owe no one a tenpenny, 
we have something before us in the bank in case of a 
rainy day, and no one can molest us while we do our 
duty. Sure then this proves we are not slaves, though 
wicked people would try to persuade us into thinking so. 
No, Jim, the ould songs have often brought tears into 
my eyes, and made my heart swell, and, therefore, I 
don’t sing ’em any more, as it’s ungrateful to be regret- 
ting what we never knew, (and which, after all, maybe 
is not thrue,) when we have so much to be thankful for. 
When I see a lovely evening, with the beautiful sun 
entering his rose-coloured palace, and the trees, hills, and 
rivers all looking so grateful for the warmth he gave ’em 
before he wished ’em good night, do you think that if 
any ould song, or discontented person tould me that long 
ago the sun was finer than now, and that all I think so 
beautiful, was much more so in past time — do you think 
that ought to make me unhappy ? No, Jim, I ought and 
would think that the beautiful sight before my eyes was 
quite beautiful enough, and thank the good God that 
gave it.” 

“ Well, Grace, you have such a quare way of being 
satisfied with everything, that it’s no use thrying to put 
you out of conceit with things.” 

“ No, Jim dear, you are wrong there, for I’m not easily 
satisfied with anything I can make better; it’s only things 
that I can’t alter or mend, that I think it best not to be 


23 


grumbling about, bekase a discontented spirit grows faster 
on one than people imagine.” 

“ Faith, it’s thrue enough, for yon, Grace ma-vourneen, 
as I know to my cost ; and sorry enough I am that ever 
the Repalers blew the bad breath into me which keeps 
me always upon the fret, bemoaning the eligance and 
grandeur of this poor counthry in ould times, when peo- 
ple came flocking from all parts of the world to larn 
knowledge in Ireland. Then we had kings and queens 
too, as witness Granawail, but now we have nothing but 
tyrants and slaves : sure the notion of it is enough to 
break one’s heart !” 

“ Then where are the tyrants, Jim agrah ? for sorrow 
a bit, much as I’ve been hearing about ’em, if ever I see 
one yet in all the counthry.” 

“ What would you say, Grace, if you were tould that 
Colonel Barron, Sir John Smith, ay, be me troth, and 
the masther too, were tyrants ?” 

“ Say, Jim ? I’d say whoever said so, spoke what was 
not thrue ! Colonel Barron, that is never tired of doing 
good — a tyrant ! Sir John Smith, who spinds hundreds 
for the poor, without even so much as axing a question, 
except whether they are in want ; and the masther, the 
dear fine generous masther ! blessings on his white 
locks — he a tyrant ! a gentleman that has no more pride 
than a new-born babe, and whose word is like a bond ! 
Och, Jim ! if ye have got so far on the road of falseness 
as to call such as these tyrants, then I have little hopes 
that ever ye’ll see the straight road.” 

“ Well now, Grace, don’t be angry, and I’ll tell you 
the truth : sure it was not I, nor the likes of me, that 
called the gentlemen tyrants ; it was the Repalers as said 
as how our landlords dhrove us like galley-slaves before 
’em, to vhote at the elections for whoever they bid us, 
and that this showed they were tyrants ; so faith I could 
say nothing against it.” 

“ Now listen to me, Jim, and I’ll tell you what you 
could have said. You might tell ’em the landlords were 
estated gentlemen, that had laming and knowledge, and 


24 


that their great properties in the coimthry gave them a 
much greater stake in it than a poor man could have, 
therefore they must, even if it was only for their own in- 
terest, wish to do what was best for the good of all. 
Their laming gives them the power of knowing what is 
best to be done ; so in choosing a Member, they like to 
recommend one to their poor ignorant tenants who is 
most likely to do good to the counthry, and keep it 
peaceable. And arn’n’t they right, Jim? And for this, 
the poor deluded creathures that’s misled by bad advisers 
would call ’em tyrants.” 

“ Och ! Ibut Grace, they do other things that’s worse: 
don’t they let their lands to whoever will give ’em the 
highest rent, over the heads of the ould tenants, whose 
fathers, and fathers’ fathers have been on the soil ? And 
don’t they encourage English settlers to come over and 
fix themselves over our heads ?” 

“ Tell me, Jim dear, if you had a pig to sell at the 
market, wouldn’t you sell it to the one that offered the 
highest price, and wouldn’t you have a right to do so ? 
And if one of the neighbours was to throw in your teeth, 
that you preferred selling your pig to a stranger who 
gave you a larger price, than to a neighbour who gave 
only half, but who had bought his pigs of you for years, 
when maybe they were much cheaper, or that you didn’t 
want the money so much, wouldn’t you think he was a 
foolish man, and an unreasonable one ? To be sure you 
would ; and yet ye blame the landlords, and call them 
tyrants, for getting the best price they can for their land, 
which is as much theirs as the pig is yours. And as for 
encouraging strangers to come and fix among us, sure 
it’s a real blessing. The rich English farmer, who takes 
the land held before by perhaps twenty poor men, em- 
ploys the twenty as labourers, with good and regular 
pay; he advises ’em, gives ’em what’s better than all 
advice, a good example ; teaches ’em to keep their word 
and engagements, encourages schools, and helps the poor 
families in all difficulties, and shows us the comfort and 
decency of cleanliness and good order. He puts the land 


25 


into fine condition, instead of letting it go to rack ani 
ruin, and, while paying a fair rent, makes an honest pro- 
fit. Often and often do I think, that never would I know 
what I do, little as it is, if it was not for the pattern set 
me in Farmer Thomas’s house ; and sure one such family 
as that does more good than twenty biickeen farmers, 
like them of our own country, who are neither gentle- 
men nor farmers, though they pretend to be both.” 

“ I can’t but allow, Grace, that Mr. Thomas and his 
family have done good, but that’s no raison to encourage 
so many other English to come over our heads ; and 
though you find words to excuse every one, what can 
you say for us Catholics to be paying the clergy for the 
Protestants ? Sure it’s a sin and a shame. No, Grace, 
the tithes is against all raison, and you can’t defend 
’em.” 

“ Faith, Jim, I’m a poor hand at defending, but still I 
think, when you consider that all we pay in tithes is 
spint among us, and comes back to us in twenty ways, 
it’s money laid out at good interest, and it’s better than 
the saving bank. Look at the employment the clergy 
gives us, besides plants for our little gardens, medicine if 
we are sick, a word of comfort if we are sad, and constant 
encouragement and kind offices if we deserve it ; — sure, 
Jim, all we give ’em comes back to us, one way or an- 
other.” 

“ Faith, it’s yourself, Grace, that bothers me by con- 
tradicting all the things the Repalers tells me ; sure you 
can’t like me as ye used to do, that you’re always show- 
ing me I’m in the wrong. It isn’t kind of you, Grace, 
nor what I expected.” 

“ Och ! Jim, would it be kind to let you keep false 
and bad thoughts in your poor head, and see ’em push- 
ing you into wicked actions, that may cause the misery 
and disgrace of us both, instead of raisoning with you. 
It’s I, Jim, that has cause to be sorrowful, and to think 
you don’t like me as you used to do ; for you’re quite 
changed, always discontented, and picking flaws in them 
you once used to like in your heart. They are not 

VOL. I. 3 


26 


changed, nor am I, but you cuishlamachree, (for you’ll 
always be that, in spite of everything,) you are changed. 
You call them tyrants that is your truest friends; your- 
self, a slave, that has your liberty as all can see, and are 
bemoaning and bewailing for things that never came into 
your mind till them wicked Repalers put ’em there.” 

“ Maybe, Grace, you’d next be after telling me that 
the absentees, as they call ’em, have a right to spend all 
their money in England that is earned by our hard la- 
bours.” 

“ Why, tell me, Jim, if you liked to spend the little 
savings we have in the bank, in Youghal, instead of Dun- 
garvan, who’d have a right to blame you ? But do you 
consider also, that for the fine lords and ladies who have 
seen foreign parts, and are used to live in England, with 
everything elegant and comfortable about and around 
’em, it is hard to live in poor Ireland, where everything 
is at sixes and sevens, with constant throubles and dis- 
turbances, and where no one is sure of life a single day. 
Isn’t it hard to drive the grand lords and ladies^away by 
your bad behaviour, and then to blame ’em for going ? 
Who, that can help themselves, would stay in a throu- 
bled country, where one man can set the whole of the 
people in a brain fever whenever he likes ; and sure those 
that stay are but poorly thanked, as witness the dear 
good masther, and the other gentlemen. When I see 
you, my dear Jim, that has a good honest heart, and 
used to be a pattern for decency and good behaviour, for- 
getting all the blessings you have, and turning your mind 
to thoughts that you cannot understand, it falls on my 
heart like a lump of ice, and makes me see how little 
an Irishman can be depended on. Jim, what makes the 
English respected, but that they have a fixed notion of 
what’s right, in their heads, and will act up to it? Do 
you think one or two mischievous men, who wanted to 
make a ladder of the poor ignorant creatures below ’em 
to climb up to power, could succeed with the sober, 
steady English 1 No, they would only be followed by 
the idle and worthless, who had nothing else to do. But 


27 


in Ireland, any man who has what is called the gift of 
the gab, who can bother the brains of his hearers by 
making ’em angry, and telling ’em they are slaves, may 
govern the poor misguided creathures as he likes.” 

“ Will ye tell me, Grace, if you plase, isn’t it enough 
to dhrive a man mad, to see the police going about at 
every side, and on every occasion, like spies, to see 
what’s doing, and like tyrants to punish ?” 

“ Faith, Jim, if people mean to do no harm, they need 
not be afraid of spies ; and sure it’s a lucky thing for the 
few that’s sober and steady, to have witnesses to prove 
that they are so, in a counthry where the bad conduct of 
so many makes all suspected. And that’s another wick- 
edness of them Repalers, that they are always inflaming 
the people against the police, and encouraging bad blood 
between ’em, instead of saying, ‘ Boys, take care, and 
show the police how little they are wanted in the coua* 
thry.’ And once the Parliament and the King is sure of 
this, they won’t long be left here : the only way to do 
this is never to break through the laws, and to be or- 
derly.” 

“Faith, Grace, you’re grown quite a politician; I’m 
surprised where you got all those quare notions into your 
head.” 

“Now, Jim dear, don’t say such a thing, for you’re 
mocking me. How could the like of me be a politician ? 
and wouldn’t it be foolish for a poor ignorant woman to 
thry to be one ? No, my buckaleen bawn, it’s only the 
plain sense of one who wishes to live in peace and quiet- 
ness, and to see those she loves thriving and decent, in- 
stead of getting into scrapes. Besides, Jim, I hate 
ingratitude ; and when I, see, that to do the bidding of 
the Repalers, a man must be ungrateful to his landlord 
and the clergy, who though of a different persuasion, 
have been always doing him good ; when I see that a 
man must fly in the face of God by breaking his com- 
mandments, make his parents and their friends unhappy, 
and och ! Jim, break the heart of his poor wife, sure who 


28 


can help thrying to open the eyes of those who are led 
astray from their duty by such bad advisers ?” 

Poor Grace’s discourse was closed by tears, that fell 
in torrents on her fair cheek ; and Jim, while wiping 
them with a corner of her apron, kissed their traces away. 
But, alas ! the tears still flowed, for he made no promise 
of abandoning the courses which caused them ; and Grace 
felt a presentiment that he might cause her to shed still 
more, so infatuated did his weak mind appear. The 
woman who has to mourn over the weakness and bad 
conduct of him she loves, but cannot respect, is placed 
in one of the most painful and humiliating situations pos- 
sible. Poor Grace felt keenly this unhappy conviction ; 
and as the blundering perversity of her husband became 
more apparent to her, and she saw he could not even de- 
fend the opinions he had adopted, she began to despair 
of leading, him back to reason, well knowing there is no 
obstinacy like that which is founded on weakness and 
ignorance. She shuddered as she reflected on the strong 
hold the Repealers must have established on such a basis ; 
and saw with dismay that they had entirely possessed 
themselves of the only tangible points in their unfortu- 
nate adherents — imagination, passion, and ignorance. 


CHAPTER VI. 

“In tliis wide world the fondest and the best 
Are the most tried, most troubled, and distressed.” 

Grace prepared herself with a heavy heart, for her 
accustomed visit to the housekeeper at Springmount, to 
whom she was taking her humble offering of new honey, 
fresh eggs, and cream-cheese. 

Such visits had hitherto been epochs of pleasure in 
ilie simple life of poor Grace. The compliments she re- 
ceived on the excellence of her presents — the kind and 
gentle words of encouragement spoken by the mistress, 


29 


and the young lady — with the useful gifts bestowed on 
her by them, had rendered her visits to Springmount 
fete-days to which she looked forward with delight, and, 
being passed, remembered with gratitude. But now, how 
differently should she face the great house ! for well she 
knew that Jim’s altered conduct was well known there. 
How mortifying to hear him blamed without being able 
to defend him ! And what could she say, except what 
she had already so frequently said to herself, without its 
producing any satisfactory result, even to her partial feel- 
ings, “ that he was led astray?” 

“ Ocli ! Jim,” ejaculated poor Grace, “ little did I 
think, that I should live to be ashamed of you ; to hear 
you blamed, and not be able to clear you ! I was too 
proud of you ; and pride is sinful ; so I am punished in 
the tenderest point. Sure if I tell ’em you are led astray 
by bad advisers, is it not owning at once that you are a 
fool? and they will look down on you as a poor weak 
creature ; and yet this I must admit, for fear they should 
think you something worse, which I could not bear. 
Och ! how lucky are those whose husbands have good 
V heads as well as good hearts, and who are not obliged to 
make excuses for those they were once proud of. When 
I look at that hive of honey, as clear and bright as the 
elegant brooch Miss Desmond wears in her habit-shirt, 
and think that last year, when I took one up to the great 
house, how the mistress herself and the young lady both 
came into the housekeeper’s-room to look at it, and told 
me that it was richer and brighter than any they had ever 
tasted or seen, except some in a foreign country ^ith an 
outlandish name ; sure it was I that was proud to tell 
’em, that if my honey was better than all the honey 
around the country, it was all because Jim filled the gar- 
den w'ith such quantities of sweet flowers, that the bees 
were feasting all day long without ever having the throu- 
ble of flying about the country, to find a wild flower 
here and there, and then come home only half laden, 
with their poor wings tired, but had the finest, and 
sweetest of flowers on the spot. How pleased the young 
3 ^ 


30 


lady used to look, and the good mistress too ! Then 
when they praised the cream-cheese, I could tell ’em 
that Jim took pride in having the nicest field of clover 
in the whole country for our cow, and hurdled it off every 
week to give the creathure a fresh bite, so that our cream 
was richer and thicker than any the neighbours’ cows 
produced. The eggs too, tliey used to tell me, were 
whiter and cleaner than any one else’s, and looked like 
snow-drops in the basket. I was proud then of hearing 
things praised, because Jim came in for the best part of 
it ; but now, little he throubles himself about the flowers 
for the bees, or the grass for the cow, since he has taken 
to be always thinking of Repaling ; and as it’s only me 
that takes care of things, I have no pleasure in hearing 
praises, because he has no share in them.” 

Tliis was the soliloquy of poor Grace as she pursued 
her solitary walk to the great house, laden with her rus- 
tic dainties. A susceptibility, caused by the conscious- 
ness of her husband’s folly, made Grace unusually 
observant of her reception by the housekeeper. She 
thought, but it might be only fancy, that there was an 
air of commiseration in the look and tone of Mrs. Mac- 
nab, when addressing her, that betrayed she knew that 
Grace was no longer the enviable being she had hitherto 
considered herself to be ; and when the presents were 
uncovered, the observation of Mrs. Macnab, “ Sure they 
are as fine as ever, which is more than I expected from 
what I heard,” made Grace feel that all was known. 

“ I’m sorry to see you looking so pale and thin, Mrs. 
Cassidy,” continued the good-natured but obtuse house- 
keeper. “ I’m afraid you have cause for it. Come don’t 
cry ; crying won’t help you, as I tells my niece every 
day, when she is crying and bemoaning her husband who 
died last year ; and yet she tould me that she cried the 
more because she knew it was no good. I tould her it 
Avas better her husband died while he was an honest, 
sober man, than to have him live to turn out a Repaler ; 
and says I, ‘ Look at Jim Cassidy, wasn’t he the pattern 
of a boy last year, and see what he is now 1 Sure it 


31 


would be better for his wife if he was dead of a natural 
death, than to live to see him hanged or shot.’ ” 

A deadly paleness overspread the face of poor Grace : 
she made an effort to approach the open window for air; 
but, overcome by the dreadful images which the obtuse 
Mrs. Macnab had called up in her mind, she fell fainting 
into a chair, to the no small discomfiture of the house- 
keeper, who, while assisting her, murmured to herself, 
“ Well, this is the way, whenever I speak sense to peo- 
ple, and think to condole with ’em ; they only take it 
more to heart, which is very ungrateful.” 

The mistress and the young lady at this moment 
approached the window, to give some orders to Mrs. 
Macnab ; when, observing the situation of their humble 
favourite, Grace, they hurried into the room to assist her. 
The voluble housekeeper detailed to them the unaccount- 
able, as she called it, fainting of Mrs. Cassidy, on her 
just hinting the probability of her husband’s being hanged 
or shot ; and the two ladies were obliged to command 
her to be silent, ere she could refrain from commenting 
on the grievous effects her reasonings and consolations 
never failed to produce on the unhappy, who always 
took everything ill that she said for their good. 

On Grace’s opening her eyes, the first objects that 
presented themselves before her, were the dear good 
mistress herself applying a smelling-bottle to her nostrils, 
and the darlint young lady, as she always called her, 
bathing her temples with eau de^ Cologne. 

This goodness was overpowering to the already 
deeply-excited feelings of poor Grace ; and as she re- 
ceived their active and kind services, she thought it was 
terrible that her husband and his misguided friends should 
have been wrought on to believe that such people could 
be their enemies — could be aught except pitying friends. 

“ Och !” thought Grace, “ could Jim now see ’em, 
tending and nursing me as if I was a born lady, what 
would he, what could he tliink ? And these are here- 
tics ! people in the wrong road ! Och ! why was I born 
to see what is right, and to love it, yet be obliged to stick 


32 


by what is wrong and false, because the one I love best 
on earth shuts his eyes against raison ? Och ! Jim, why 
cannot I lave off loving you when I cannot respect you 1 
but to have my poor heart torn to pieces between blam- 
ing you and pitying you, sure it’s too cruel ; and yet 
didn’t I take you for better for worse, for richer for 
poorer, which, for poor people, must mane being happy 
or unhappy ? And now, when the raison has left yon, 
and you have most need of me, I’d be for blaming you, 
or laving you too ! Och ! no,(cuishlamachree,. I’ll bear 
with your weakness ; and never shall it be said that 
Grace Cassidy gave up her husband because he had 
fallen into throubles, though he brought ’em on him- 
self.” 

All these thoughts had produced torrents of tears from 
the eyes of poor Grace, accompanied by tremulous pres- 
sures of the hands of the dear mistress and the darlint 
young lady. The pressures were understood, and kindly 
returned, and glances of unutterable love and gratitude 
disclosed her feelings to her dear good protectresses. 

A glass of wine having restored Grace to something 
like composure, she begged to be allowed to spake alone 
with the ladies, and Mrs. Desmond having led the way 
to her morning-room, insisted on Grace’s taking a chair. 

“Och! my honoured mistress,” said Grace, “your 
goodness overpowers me. Had you reproached me with 
the failings of my husband, I could liave borne it; but 
to see your patience, your condescension, sure it’s too 
much. I see my poor Jim’s wakeness ; my heart drops 
tears of blood more bitter than the tears that fall from 
my eyes, when I see his folly — his infatuation. Sure, 
I pass my time in thrying to raison with him, but what 
can a poor, ignorant, wake woman, like me, say against 
all that them wicked, clever Repalers has put into his 
head? If they tould him plain sense and common raison, 
sure one might hope that he could tell what it was that 
convinced him, and one might thry to argue with him ; 
but, no 1 it’s a parcel of fiery, flashing, burning words, 
enough to raise the anger of a passionate man and the 


4k 


33 


disdain of a raisonable one, that they have poured like 
melting lead into his ears, and like that same melted lead, 
the words keep the same fantastic images when cold that 
they had when they were hot, and the poor foolish cra- 
thers that keep ’em in their minds, thry to warm ’em 
again when they want to use ’em, but never can. Och! 
ladies, don’t hate my poor Jim. The head is gone 
wrong, but the heart is as right and honest as ever it was, 
and Avill bring him to the right road once more, or else 
I must find mine to the churchyard. Ye’ll hear stories 
of him, och! dear ladies, but do not believe that he is 
more than foolish ; wicked, I trust, he will never be, — 
or if he should, then I pray that I may not live to see it; 
— And yet what am I saying? Ought I not to pray that if 
such a misfortune is to befall him, I may live to comfort 
him, when nobody else will?” 

Mrs. Desmond and her daughter tried to console Grace 
by kind and soothing expressions of their confidence in 
her good sense and conduct, and the salutary effect they 
hoped it would produce on her husband. 

They were interrupted by the arrival of Mr. Desmond, 
or the masther, as Grace always called him, accompanied 
by Colonel Forrester, the commanding officer of the 
cavalry regiment at Waterford, who had come to pass a 
few days at Springmount. The kind salute by Mr. Des- 
mond of “ How d’ye do, my pretty Grace? I’m sure 
you have brought us some of your fine honey,” and the 
guinea slipped into her hand, prevented not Grace’s ob- 
serving, with the intuitive quickness of a woman, and a 
. woman who has loved, that the presence of the handsome 
; Colonel Forrester had suffused the cheeks of Miss Des- - 
mond with a brighter red than she had ever seen them 
wear. '’ And as the Colonel fixed his intelligent eyes, with 
an expression of pleasure that could not be mistaken, on 
the countenance of Miss Desmond, Grace could not help 
offering up a mental prayer, that his head might be able 
to resist bad advisers, and that her darlint young lady 
might never live, like her, to be ashamed of the object 
of her love. 


34 


“ But,” thought Grace, “ am I not an ignorant foolish, 
creature, to be thinking of such a thing? Sure he’s a 
gentleman, and what’s more, an Englishman ; and they 
always listen to raison, and are never for breaking the 
law.” 

Colonel Forrester, seeing the kindness with which 
Grace was treated by the family at Springmount, and 
being interested by her pretty face and graceful figure, 
addressed a few words of compliment to her, not on her 
personal attractions, — for he had perception to feel she 
would have little pleasure in listening to this species of 
homage, — but on her honey, which he told her he had 
tasted on his last visit, and which reminded him of that 
he had eaten in Greece some years before. 

Grace left Springmount with a heart more at ease than 
when she had entered it. The kind and unaltered man- 
ners of the family had reassured her, and she felt that, 
arrive what might, on them she could reckon as true 
friends, prepared to put the most favourable interpretation 
on all her actions, and the least severe one on those ot 
her misguided, but still dearly beloved husband. 


CHAPTER VII. 

“ Lightly thou say’st that woman’s love is false ; 

The thought is falser far — 

For some of them are true as martyrs’ legends ; 

As full of suffering faitli, of burning love, 

Of high devotion — wortliier of heaven than earth.” 

•On her route towards home, Grace met Mr. Disnay, 
and his wife and daughter, coming to dine at Spring- 
mount. Her humble courtsey was returned by the kind 
greetings of the family, each of whom had something 
good-natured to say to her. The jaunting-car, on which 
they were seated, was stopped some time that they might 
converse with her, and the good rector’s wife told Grace, 
she had bought a gown for her from the pedlar a few 


35 


days before, and hoped she would soon come for it. 
How did her grateful heart swell with thankfulness 
towards this excellent family! yet there was bitterness 
mingled in the overflowing stream that ran through it, 
when she reflected, that such were the persons against 
whom the Repealers would arm the hand of her weak- 
minded husband. 

“ To think,” said Grace to herself, “ how changed 
Jim is ! how, a few short months ago, he loved the mas 
ther and the family quite as well as I do, and Parson 
Disnay the same, though now — och! shame on them 
that turns the poor against their best friends, and breaks 
down confidence and dependence between them!” 

On returning to her home, she found Jim moodily 
ruminating over the half-extinguished fire, on which was 
placed the iron pot that contained their evening repast. 
He hardly noticed her entrance, and this unnatural cold- 
ness from one who had been accustomed to welcome her 
with joyful acclamations, brought tears into her eyes. 
She felt this neglect perhaps the more forcibly, from the 
contrast it offered to the kindness she had met with 
abroad ; but resolving not to show that she observed it, 
lest she should offend Jim, she approached him with a 
smile, and stooped to kiss his forehead. He submitted 
in silence to the caress, that he had till lately sought with 
eagerness, and then said — 

“ So, Grace, I find you have been thrying to curry 
favour, by taking your presents of honey, cream-cheese, 
and eggs, over to the gi'eat house ? Sure it’s very mane 
of you, to be putting your ‘ come hither' on them proud 
grandees that’s leagued with the English against us. Isn’t 
it very quare to see a wife turning against her own hus- 
band, — moreover a wife that is devout? Sure the Repa- 
lers are right enough when they say, that the worse 
we’re trailed the greater slaves we are.” 

“ Jim dear,” said Grace, “ you’ve let the boodoch* 
get into your own good heart at this present moment; 


Anger. 


36 


you think of our thrue friends not as they are — not as 
you’ve known ’em, and proved ’em to be for years, but 
as your bad advisers thry to make you believe they are. 
You well know I would not, I could not turn against 
you, if the whole world was turned against you ; and 
sure Jim, it’s a bad sign of your new friends, when they 
make you suspect your own wife. Look at me, my own 
dear Jim, and tell me if I’m not the same Grace you mar- 
ried two years ago — that you loved — but that, och ! Jim, 
that I should live to say it ! you love no longer. If my 
cheeks are pale, and my eyes heavy, och ! think, Jim, 
it’s fretting and grieving that makes ’em so ; and could I 
see you as you used to be. I’d soon look as gay and as 
happy as ever I was. You used to make me the happiest 
woman in all Cologan[; but now, Jim,” and here her voice 
faltered from emotion, “I am the most unhappy, because 
I can’t forget what you were.” 

“AVell, Grace ma-vourneen, I’m grieved to hear you 
say this. Faith, I love you better than everything in 
the world, barring the poor counthry ; and its because I 
wish to help to get her out of her throubles that I put 
you into your’s. Sure it’s hard for a man to choose be- 
tween his wife and his counthry anyway, when the good 
of one is often quite opposed to the good of the other ; 
just as it’s hard to hate tyrants in a body, and to like 
’em separately. Now I lamed to like the masther and 
tlie other gentlemen about here, before ever I knew they 
were tyrants ; and now I am tould they are so, I can’t 
get the ould liking out of my heart, and this keeps me 
dways in a bad humour. You think, a cuishlamachree, 
that you have all the sorrowful thoughts to vourself, but 
you’re mistaken. Sure this evening, when I was here, 
all alone by myself, and looked about me, and saw the 
stocking you were knitting for me, with my name so 
beautifully knit in it, and' the flower-pots in the window, 
all placed by your own hands, and everything so tidy 
and so clean — sure I fell into a sort of waking dream, 
and thought over all the past times ; and while I was 
thinking, the smell of the flowers came in through the 


37 


open windows ; and when the smell of fine flowers comes 
near me, it always reminds me of you, Grace, and puts 
soft thoughts into my heart. Then the bees came hum- 
ming about, with such a pleasant sound, and the birds 
began singing, as if they knew they were among friends ; 
the cricket chirping ip the corner of the hearth, just as if 
it never minded me.^^ Sure the tears came into my eyes, 
and I thought what a pleasant, beautiful world this would 
be if every one was contint But then came the remem- 
brance of all that the Repalers tell us, and I grew angry 
with myself for forgetting, which I am constantly doing, 
that I’m but a thrampled slave, kissing the hands of the 
tyrants that have thrown the chains over me; and just 
as I had got angry with myself, you came in, a-vour- 
neen, and, like a brute, I did not recaive you as I ought.” 

“ Och, Jim, one kind word from your own dear mouth 
can always console me, and what you’ve now been tell- 
ing me of what passes in your mind, gives me hopes that 
you’ll soon open your eyes to the folly of listening to 
bad advisers, and open your heart to all the innocent 
pleasures this beautiful, pleasant world can give. Sure 
they’re ungrateful, agrah, that says this is a bad world, 
and that we live in bad times ; if the world and the times 
are bad, it’s our own evil thoughts and evil ways that 
makes ’em so. Who that has the blessing of a free con- 
science, can look around in the summer, and see the 
beautiful skies, earth, and w'aters, with the trees, herbs, 
and flowers which God has given us, and hear the happy 
birds carolling around, without feeling that such a plea- 
sant world was not given for people to be discontented 
in ? Each season has its pleasures ; for when the winter 
comes, and all without doors looks so cold and dreary, 
not a leaf on the poor shivering trees, or a flower to be 
seen, sure it’s a pleasure to see a fine blazing fire, a 
nice clean hearth, with a w^arm, comfortable supper, and 
everything around the little kitchen shining by the light 
of the fire, and the people that love each other sitting by 
it, and thanking God that gives such pleasant changes to 
VOL. I. , 4 


38 


the seasons. Och ! Jim, how much we have to be grate- 
ful for, and what a sin it is to be discontented!” 


CHAPTER Vm. 

“ For his bounty. 

There was no winter in’t; an autumn Hwas, 

That grew the more by reaping.** 

Mr. Desmond, the landlord, or masther as he was' 
called by his tenants, was a gentleman of ancient family 
and large fortune, deservedly popular in his county. He 
had travelled much in his youth, and had, late in life, 
married an English lady of high birth, his junior by many 
years, who made him the happy father of Frances Des- 
mond, the young lady, or the young mistress, as the pea- 
santry loved to call her, who has been already presented 
to our readers. 

Mr. Desmond was in his sixtieth year, and his fair 
daughter had just entered on her eighteenth, at the period, 
when Colonel Forrester’s regiment came into their neigh- 
bourhood. An acquaintance, commenced through that 
urbane hospitality which distinguishes the Irish gentry, 
had soon ripened into intimacy between Mr. Desmond 
and the Colonel, and into a still warmer feeling between 
him and Miss Desmond. His visits to Springmount 
were as frequent as his military duties would permit; 
and they were welcomed by the whole family with undis- 
guised pleasure. Indeed, the personal and mental quali- 
fications of Colonel Forrester were such as must have 
insured him a cordial reception wherever he presented 
himself ; but in the remote quarter where he was at pre- 
sent established, he was so superior to the generality of 
the surrounding young men, that the welcome accorded 
to him lavishly displayed all the friendship and esteem 
which his valuable qualities so deservedly inspired. 

Mrs. Desmond, accustomed to the good-breeding and 


39 


reserve that characterizes her countrymen — which, if less 
calculated to amuse, is more formed to excite respect than 
is the gay flippancy of the more mercurial Irish gentle- 
men, — felt highly gratified by the society of Colonel 
Forrester ; and perhaps the pleasure was enhanced by 
the knowledge that he belonged to a high aristocratic 
family with whom her own was distantly connected. 

Mr. Desmond had lived so long in England, that he 
had adopted all its elegances and comforts in his dwell- 
ing and mode of life, and its refinement in manners was 
grafted on the unceremonious cordiality that always re- 
mains such an agreeable peculiarity in the high-bred 
Irish. He loved the English, as he often declared, for 
many reasons, but principally on account of his wife ; 
while she on every occasion displayed a partiality to her 
adopted country, no less indicative of her goodness of 
heart, than of the strong affection that bound her to him 
who had transplanted her to his native soil. While 
ameliorating the condition of the tenants and labourers 
of her husband, and giving them a taste for cleanliness, 
and the power of enjoying it, no mortifying comparisons 
between them and the more civilized peasantry of hap- 
pier England ever escaped her. Their self-love was 
never wounded, though all that could excite emulation in 
habits of order and decency, were put in action. 

The gardener had orders to supply every family around 
with plants, and to encourage the propagation of the dif- 
ferent vegetables, to diversify their food. Flower roots, 
^eeds, and slips of geraniums, were liberally supplied to 
all who wished to decorate their gardens or flower-pots ; 
and the housekeeper had instructions never to refuse as- 
sistance to the sick or needy, but to furnish them with 
broth, food, or wine. Clothing was distributed to those 
who were too poor to buy it, and useful presents were 
sent to the more wealthy^; so that it is not to be won- 
dered at, that the family of Springmount were loved and 
respected by the whole country. 

The beneficent influence which they exercised, was 
visible in the appearance of the whole neighbourhood 


t 


40 


around them. The clean, and well-built cottages, with 
glass windows made to open ; the gay patches of gardens 
in front, where flaunted many a flower from the parent 
stock at Springmount; the tidy, well-clipped hedges, and 
the total absence from sight of dunghills, and their ani- 
mated accompaniments — pigs wallowing in the verdant 
mire, proclaimed that improvement was abroad, and that 
the lower orders of Irish only want example and assist- 
ance to become a civilized peasantry, instead of a law- 
less set of savages. Whole fields of turnips might be 
seen in the neighbourhood of Springmount, unmolested 
by any robber, save the birds, because Mr. Desmond had 
cultivated them so largely that, with all the disrespect for 
meum and tuum attributed to the poor Irish, there was 
now no temptation to steal what all might have for the 
asking ; while on a neighbouring property, the few tur- 
nip-fields scattered around were obliged to be guarded, 
and were pillaged whenever opportunity admitted of 
depredation. 

Mrs. Desmond encouraged dairies, and her dairy-maids 
taught those who were willing to learn, how to make 
milk-cheeses, so that the poor labourers went to their 
work with a provision of home-made bread and cheese, 
instead of half-cold potatoes, their former habitual food ; 
and seldom did they partake their more comfortable re- 
pasts, without thanking the good mistress who had been 
the means of their enjoying it. 

The country was in this progressive state of improve- 
ment, when a contested election disturbed its tranquillity, 
and Repeal (that watch-word of agitation) spread like 
wildfire over it. Their very prosperity was pointed out 
to the poor illiterate peasantry, who had hitherto been 
proud of it, as the badge of their slavery; their comforts 
and luxuries were decried as the cunning inventions of 
their tyrants, to render them dependent and luxurious ; 
and they were told that their gardens were filled with 
flowers, to prevent their observing the evil weeds that 
were springing up afresh every day in the rank garden 
of corruption;^ and the words, “Tyrant,” and “Slave 


41 


Driver,” were now become the synonymes for landlord. 
The Irish heart is not naturally ungrateful, far from it ; 
but unfortunately, as in the richest soils tares and briers 
will spring up among the flowers, so in the good hearts 
of the Irish many virtues are sullied by defects ; and the 
mobility of disposition of this fiery people renders them 
so incapable of reflection, that, hurried away by their 
impetuosity, they often appear ungrateful when they are 
only forgetful ; the forgetfulness being produced by the 
temporary predominance of some other feeling ; for rarely 
does the mind of an Irishman possess the power of en- 
tertaining two passions at the same moment. 

The peasants in the neighbourhood of Springmount 
now began to view even the acts of kindness shown to 
them with a suspicious eye, and to consider advice or 
remonstrance as an unjust and tyrannical interference 
with their free will. Beholding everything through the 
discoloured medium of their over-excited imaginations, 
the most unimportant occurrences assumed a grave as- 
pect. Every attempt to control their turbulence was 
resented as an injury, and the cause of such attempts 
was forgotten by the reckless perpetrators, in the resent- 
ful fury the effects produced. It is with the Irish people 
as with sin, — who shall say to either, “ Thus far shalt 
thou go, and no farther ?” The first step made, the de- 
scent becomes rapid ; and they who have invoked the 
storm, are often powerless to save their agents from its 
fearful devastation. 

Mr. Desmond had too much knowledge of human na- 
ture in general, and of Irish nature in particular, to be 
as much surprised as he was pained, by the change 
operated on the minds of his tenantry by the popular 
clamour. He felt that, if met with prudence and firm- 
ness, the sea of trouble that threatened to overflow might 
subside; but that any display of undue warmth in resist- 
ing their encroachments, might make that a party feeling 
which was at present but a partial infatuation ; and he 
dreaded to see enlisted beneath the banners of popular 
excitement, the heated and exaggerated sentiments of his 
4.* 


42 


too easily-excited countrymen. He represented to the 
gentlemen and magistrates in the country, the necessity 
of perfect union and good understanding among them- 
selves, to oppose the unruly and misguided peasantry, 
and to prevent their taking any decisive step in their 
meditated violation of the laws. 

“ Better is it,” said he, “ to prevent crime, than to 
have to punish it and acting on this principle, — a prin- 
ciple hitherto far too little acted upon in Ireland, — he de- 
termined to await the result, and opposed the proposals 
of the gentry around him, to demand an increase of mili- 
tary force and civil power from the government. 

“ Let us not show these misled people that we fear 
them,” said Mr. Desmond; “but let us by our forbear- 
ance, as long as forbearance is possible, prove that we 
prefer convincing their reason to coercing their persons. 
The laws have never been respected, as they ought to be, 
in Ireland. Military force is always called in to support 
them, and it is difficult to impress on an ignorant people, 
a respect for that which the bayonet alone forces them to 
endure.” 

Mr. Desmond had a large fortune in the funds, and 
his estates being unentailed, he had the power of be- 
queathing it to his daughter. This rendered her in point 
of wealth, one of the richest heiresses in the kingdom, 
and, joined to her personal attractions, had already ob- 
tained numerous suitors for her hand. Colonel Forres- 
ter was the first who had made a favourable impression 
on her youthful fancy, and this was strengthened by each 
succeeding interview. The passion she had excited in 
him, was the strongest he had ever known ; and its vivid- 
ness and increasing warmth led him to reflect on their 
mutual positions. 

“ Was it likely,” he asked himself, “that Mr. Des- 
mond would give his fair heiress to a soldier, whose pa- 
trimony consisted of an estate of not more than two 
thousand a-year ? No ! he surely would wish to see her 
allied to some nobleman, or at least to some person of 
suitable fortune to her own. With this conviction, ought 


43 


he to continue his visits to Springmount — visits that 
could only serve to rivet still more closely the chains 
that bound him to its fair heiress ? And yet how resign 
the happiness of seeing her ? 

But when did a man in love do what he ought to do, 
except in fiction ? The next day saw the handsome 
Colonel pursuing his route to Springmount, thinking 
only of the pleasure of seeing the lovely Frances’ eyes 
sparkle at his approach, and her cheeks blush a rosier 
red. 

In compliance with all received notions on such points, 
Frances Desmond ought to have concealed every external 
demonstration of the pleasure Colpnel Forrester’s visits 
gave her, until he had made her a formal declaration. 
Her wishes, according to the verse of the most witty and 
not most delicate-minded woman of her day, ought to 
have been in her keeping until he had told her what they 
were to be. But she was an artless child of Nature, 
and had wished that Colonel Forrester might always be 
at Springmount long before she knew that the feeling was 
reciprocal; and he found the wish increase on his part 
by observing the involuntary proofs of satisfaction his 
presence afforded her. He rode by her side, to see all 
the fine points of view in the neighbourhood ; and, strange 
to say, neither felt the presence of Mr. Desmond a re- 
straint, nor — as in fashionable phraseology, a third per- 
son, and that person a father, under such circumstances 
would be considered — a bore. 

I would it were possible, consistently with truth and 
nature, to paint Frances Desmond otherwise than as she 
is, or was, reader, when we knew her in the year 1832. 
Then would you see our veritable heroine as heroines 
are seen on paper, but not as they are found in real life, 
if, indeed, heroines still exist. With heroic courage, yet 
timid as the frightened fawn ; possessing all the delicacy 
of indisposition, and yet all the bloom of health — two 
qualifications that it never has been our good fortune to 
encounter, except on paper,— refined sensibility, “ dying 
of a rose in aromatic pain,” united to 


44 


“ The will to sufTer, and unshrinking bear 
Ills that the timid fill with trembling fear;” 

she should unite in her sweet and fragile person all the 
opposing qualities that the stepdame Nature never allows 
to meet ; and when we had drawn this “ faultless mon- 
ster that the world ne’er saw,” we should feel convinced 
of having merited your suffrages. 

But, alas ! the age of heroines, as well as of chivalry, 
is past, and we must be content to represent Frances 
Desmond as Nature made her, not a faultless person, but 
a very attractive and lovely girl. 

The morning after Colonel Forrester’s arrival, the let- 
ter-bag brought him a letter, forwarded from head-quar- 
ters, the perusal of which seemed to afford him little 
pleasure ; and the same conveyance brought Mr. Des- 
mond an official document, dated “ Castle, Dublin,” that 
appeared to give him still less satisfaction. 

We have frequently had opportunities of observing the 
various emotions exhibited on the arrival of the locked post- 
bags in country houses ; and truth compels us to declare, 
that the predominating feelings on such occasions have 
been generally gloomy or vexatious. This observation 
of ours has led us to reflect still farther on the subject ; 
and the resume of our reflections is this suggestion, — 
that henceforth the opening of the Sibyl bag be performed 
in solitude ; and that the letters be placed on the dressing 
tables of the addressed, where the reader may contem- 
plate, between each period, its effects on his or her coun- 
tenance reflected in the mirror, and endeavour to profit 
by the admonition thus impressively conveyed, instead 
of being surrounded by the inquisitive observers who in- 
variably infest the breakfast-tables or desserts, the usual 
places and hours of receiving letters in country-houses. 

But to return to Springmount, whence we have been 
withdrawn by this digression. The owner of this man- 
sion and Colonel Forrester exchanged glances on perusing 
the concluding lines of their respective communications, 
and retired to the library, where we shall leave them in 
consultation, while we return to the humble cottage of 
Jim Cassidy. 


45 


CHAPTER IX. 

“ Grief is the unhappy charter of our sex ; 

The g’ods who gave us readier tears to shed, 

Gave us more cause to shed them.’* 

* ' p 

We left Jim with softened feelings, attuned to those 
of Grace, which were overflowing with the milk of hu- 
man kindness. 

A peaceful night followed their tranquil evening, in 
which' Jim dreamed that he fought and vanquished the 
hydra-headed enemy that assailed his poor ould counthry 
— one face darting forth its forked tongue, filled with 
venom to destroy, and the other trying to remove the 
poison with its slaver. Jim imagined that he was placing 
the crown of Ireland (that crown whose thorns have 
pierced every head that has worn it) on the white locks 
of the ould mastlier, when he was awakened by repeated 
knocking at his door, to inform him that the “ Sociation 
would meet at Kilmackthomas that evening, and that 
there would be great work there.” < 

“ Och ! don’t go, Jim dear,” cried Grace, while her 
face became blanched with terror. “ On my bended 
knees I pray you not to go, and sure you can’t have the 
heart to refuse your own poor Grace this prayer.” 

“ Well' sure, Grace ma-vourneen. I’m sorry to refuse 
you, but it’s quite impossible for me not to go. What 
would the boys think?” 

“ Jim, Jim, what matter what they think ? Does their 
thoughts make your happiness or unhappiness? But 
sure, Jim, your own faithful wife, your poor Grace, who 
has no happiness but .you — can you leave me, with all 
this terrible foreboding at my heart, as if ice-water was 
running through my veins? Och! Jim, it’s- thrue I’m 
but a wake woman, but if the notion of what all the world 
put together might think of anything I was to do, came 
in comparison with one 'thought of yours, sure I’d never 


46 


balance one minute, but give up all to make you con- 
tented. Och ! Jim, this is the way a woman loves ; why 
don’t men, who are stronger, love as well?” 

This is a problem whose solution may more probably 
be found in the weakness than in the strength of men. 

Vain were Grace’s arguments, entreaties, and tears, to 
retain Jim. To the “ Sociation” he was determined to 
go, and the obstinacy of his weak head triumphed over 
the pleadings of his heart, which urged him to comply 
with the prayers of his wif^. Obstinacy is. almost always 
found to exist in proportion to the weakness of the intel- 
lect where it is lodged, and, strange to say, is often mis- 
taken by its possessor for firmness ; he, however, is the 
only person who can entertain any doubt on this subject, 
for all who come in contact with him, are soon aware of 
the difference,— -a difference unlike many others, because 
it has a striking distinction. 

Grace is not the first, and certainly will not be the 
last, woman whose strength of head offered little conso- 
lation for her weakness of heart; and she mourned the 
departure of her husband with bitter tears ; partly occa- 
sioned by her dread of his compromising his safety or 
reputation at the “ Sociation and partly by the con- 
sciousness that he no longer heeded her prayers, though 
once, and at no distant period, they could stay his most 
stubborn resolves. Tears are never so bitter as when 
we know that they fall unheeded, and poor Grace felt 
that her’s had lost their power. She tried to occupy 
herself with her household duties ; sat down by the win- 
dow to her spinning-wheel, and while her foot sent it 
revolving, and her taper fingers spun the thread, she 
murmured the following ditty : — 


“ Och ! once I thought no tear of mine 
Could fall, but soon you’d wipe it dry; 


But now I’m left alone to pine, 
•Och ! wo is me, I can’t but cry. 


\ 


“ For you I left a mother’s care. 
And an adoring father too ; 


47 


I little thought I’d have to bear 

Cold looks, and colder words, from you. 

Och! where’s the love you swore to me. 

For which I gave you all my heart ? 

Ah ! wo is me, too plain I see 
That happiness and I must part.” 

The plaintive voice of Grace, and the sentiment of the 
^mple ditty, which was the lament of the wife of a free- 
booter, composed some fifty years before, accorded so 
well with her present feelings, as to renew her tears. 
She left her wheel, and, drying her eyes, stood at the 
open door, trusting that the fine day and elegant prospect, 
as she called it, might divert her. 

It was one of those beautiful, calm, sunshiny days, 
when the sky is one unbroken sheet of blue, and the 
clear waters that reflect it seem to give back its azure tint 
in sparkling brilliancy ; the trees were scarcely agitated 
by the air, and yet there was a lightness and freshness 
in the atmosphere, that brought relief to the feverish brow 
and heated eyes of poor Grace. 

“ Sure he’ll have a beautiful day for his walk across 
the mountain,” thought Grace, reverting with true femi- 
nine feeling to him who occupied all her thoughts. 
“ How strange it is that I can’t see a fine day, a clear 
blue sky, or the beautiful trees looking down at them- 
selves in the river, but it makes me think of Jim. Sure 
this is mighty quare ; I wonder if the quality have such 
notions. I wonder if Miss Desmond thinks of the Curnel 
when she sees everything looking so elegant about her; 
but I suppose she has too many fine thoughts in her 
head to have room for all the loving ones that’s in mine, 
for sure the love and liking is the chief comfort of the 
poor, and the rich have so many other comforts, that 
they can’t enjoy this as we do, and yet for all this, faith, 
the dear young lady looked as foolish at the Curnel as I 
used to do at Jim before he axed me to marry him.” 


48 


CHAPTER X. 

Oh! grief hath changed me since you saw me last, 

And careful hours, with Time’s deformed hand, 

Have written strange defeatures in my face.” 

Grace’s soliloquy was interrupted by the arrival of 
Larry M‘Swigger, an old neighbour of her father’s, who, 
happening to be in that part of the country, came to see 
her. / 

“ Then how are you. Mistress Cassidy?” demanded 
Larry, saluting Grace with a cordial shake of th.e hand 
and a kiss on the cheek. “ Sure it’s myself that’s glad 
to see you anyways, for the sight of you is good for sore 
eyes ; and, faith, mine has a good right to be sore, for 
sure I’ve had salt tears in ’em enough to salt a leg of 
pork, — ay, faith, a whole side of /pork, this last three 
months.” 

“ Indeed, and I’m sorry for your tlirouble, Larry,” an- 
swered Grace. “ I heard, sure enough, that you lost 
your poor woman some time ago, but I thought that as 
you hadn’t seen her for a long while, maybe you had got 
used to living without her.” 

“ Och ! then. Mistress Cassidy, how can you, who 
have a tinder heart, be after saying such a thing to me ? 
Sure it’s the being such a long while without seeing my 
poor Molly, that makes me in all this throuble. If we 
had been living dacently and rispectably together, quar- 
relling every day, like most other married couples, I 
might soon get over my grief, and think, perhaps, her 
going before me on the long road was all for the better ; 
but it’s so long since I parted from the creathure, and she 
had gone so clear and clane out of my head for so many 
years, that now I know she is dead, faith, she comes 
back into my mind for all the world as she was whin I 
first married her, and I can’t for the life of me dhrive her 
away. She is always before me, with her purty coal- 


49 


black hair, her cheeks like two red apples, and her 
roguish eyes laughing in her head ; and sure isn’t this 
enough to break the heart of me ? If I saw her as she 
was latterly, sure I could not have such false notions, 
for then I’d know that it was a poor ugly ould woman 
that was dead, instead of a sprightly, purty girl ; but it’s 
all in vain for me to be thrying to remember" how she 
looked before I parted from her, when we used to be 
fighting and squabbling all day bekase I’d take the dhrop, 
and that I used to think she looked like the north side of a 
crab-tree, so sour and contrairy when I came home. No, 
faith, Mrs. Cassidy, all this is gone clane out of my 
mind, and I’m just grieving my heart out for the clane, 
sprightly Colleen dhas I was once so fond of, instead of 
thinking of the poor ould woman that’s gone to her long 
home. Then whin I thry to comfort myself by rimim- 
bering the nicknames and bitter words she used to say 
to me, I can’t bring one of ’em fresh into my thoughts, 
but all the loving words is always coming into my ears ; 
and aren’t I obliged to go and look at myself in the bit 
of looking-glass I’ve got, to prove I’m not the buckaleen 
bawn, and the clane, tidy boy that poor Molly used to 
call me in ould times ; and whin I see the ould wizen 
face of me in the glass, and all the wrinkles falling out 
about my eyes like an ould stocking about the heels of a 
beggar-man, faith, I don’t know whether to laugh or cry, 
I feel so quare. Och ! Mistress Casidy, sure it’s a droll 
thing to have the thoughts and loving notions I had forty 
years ago all coming back young and fresh into my 
heart, for all the world as if they had been asleep ever 
since, and to see the ould face and the ould body outside, 
that is like a cabin falling to ruin, and the inside so fresh. 
All this comes from poor Molly’s dying : sure it has 
brought grief and throuble on me any way.” 

“Indeed, Larry, I feel for you, and am sorry for 
our poor wife. Won’t you break bread in the house, 
for lucksake ?” 

“ I won’t refuse you. Mistress Cassidy, for sure 
enough the ould saying is thrue, sorrow is dry, and I’ll 

VOL. I. . 5 


50 


be glad enough to take a glass of whatever you give me, 
while I tell you the rest of my throubles.” 

While Larry M‘Swigger partook of the repast Grace 
laid before him, to which he did ample honour, washing 
it down with repeated draughts of cider, he continued his 
narrative in the following words : 

“ Maybe you’d be thinking. Mistress Cassidy, that it 
was throuble enough for me to lose poor Molly once by 
death ; but what will you say when I tell you I have lost 
her three times ?” 

Grace’s countenance expressed the astonishment to 
which she was going to give utterance, when Larry em- 
phatically exclaimed, “ Whisht the Irish word for 
silence, and thus continued: “Whisht! don’t stop or 
hinder me till I’ve told you all ; for if you do, the story 
is so long, that I won’t have finished it this blessed 
night.” 

The threat produced the desired effect on Grace, who, 
though her curiosity was somewhat excited, had no de- 
sire that the narrative or the narrator should continue 
until night. 

“ Well, then, to begin at the beginning. Mistress Cas- 
sidy. Sure when myself heard from Dublin that poor 
Molly had died in the hospital, and that she begged with 
her last words that I’d take her home, and bury her da- 
cently , among her people, and not lave her to lie among 
strangers in Dublin, — sure I promised before God and 
man, that I’d neither stop nor stay till I'd bring her 
home ; so I took a car, and put a good feather-bed in it, 
and put sallys and kippins about it, and covered it with 
a fine stuff quilt, till I made it into as ilegant a chaise- 
marine as ever you set your eyes on, for I was deter- 
mined the poor crealhure should have everything dacent 
for her journey home, and that the rain should not come 
to her. Well, I took old Baucherem, my horse, that 
drew the car quite aisy and comfortable, and faith we 
arrived in Dublin the sixteenth day. 

“ I went next morning to the hospital. They showed 
me the grave where poor Molly was put in, and I took 


51 


the coffin and all, just as it was, put it in my chaise- 
marine, and packed up half-a-dozen bottles of parliament 
whisky with it, just to refresh me on the road, and to 
keep the throuble out of my heart. When the night was 
falling, I didn’t quite like to be all alone with poor Molly, 
so lunade ould_Baucherem gallop while ever I could ; 
and to hear the coffin rattling against the car, faith, it was 
very awful ! But at last the coffin seemed to be fixed 
quite steady, for I heard no more noise ; and when I 
came to the public-house where we were to stop for the 
night, and tould ’em who was in the chaise-marine, sure 
they wint out to help me to bring Molly into a dacent 
room, that we might wake her genteelly, when the devil 
a bit of poor Molly was there ; and we found the rungs 
of the car behind broken clane away, so I guessed the 
coffin must have fallen on the road. This I call the se- 
cond time of losing poor Molly, and we had eleven 
miles to go before we found her again. 

“ Well, to make 'a long story short, at last I arrived at 
her own place, and 1 had got so used to having the poor 
creathure with me, that many’s the shanahos about ould 
times I had with her on the road. I tould her every- 
thing that happened ever since she went away, and often 
I thought. Mistress Cassidy, that poor Molly must be 
grately altered to let me have all the talk to myself. Sure 
when I reflected I had not behaved genteely to her for 
so many years, in never sending her anything, not so 
much as a scratch of a pen, faith, I thought I’d make up 
for it, and I axed her pardon, and said everything that 
was dacent and comfortable to her, to make her mind 
and my own aisy. 

“ Well, sure there was Nelly Lynch, an old gossip of 
Molly’s, at Cappoquin ; and when I was waking Molly 
the night before I was to bury her, sure Nelly and I took 
a glass too much in dhrinking a happy and a blessed rest 
to poor Molly, and Nelly takes it into her head that we 
should open the coffin, and look at poor Molly. No 
sooner said than done ; but just think what I felt when I 
saw a bald head and an ugly ould face, no more like 


52 


1 


Molly^s than J’m like what I was. ‘ Sure,’ says I, ‘this 
never can be my Molly, — she that was such a purty, 
clane, sprightly girl !’ ‘Well,’ says Nelly, ‘that baits 
everything. Here you are thrying to conceit an ould 
woman of past sixty into a purty clane girl,’ and Nelly 
was quite affronted like, bekase I wanted to prove that 
Molly was once too handsome to be like the ugly ould 
creature in the coffin. 

“ She looked at her again and again, and said she’d 
know her amongst a thousand, for that she was not a bit 
changed. This vexed me, and I went up quite close to 
the coffin, with a candle in my hand, and looking close 
to the corpse, I said, ‘ Well, Mistress Lynch,’ for I was 
too angry to call her Nelly, ‘ maybe you’d be for telling 
me that my poor wife had grey whiskers, and a beard 
twice as thick and as hard as my own, for here they are.’ 
She was thrying to persuade me that she had, and that 
this was still Molly, when, in my passion, I lifted up the 
winding-sheet, and there was — not Molly, sure enough, 
but a poor ould soldier with a wooden-leg, and covered 
over with the marks of wounds. This was what I call 
losing Molly a third time, and after all the expinse and 
throuble I had to bring her down. And to think of my 
opening my heart and telling my secrets to a stranger, 
and a man too, instead of my poor woman. 

“ But great as my grief and disappointment was, still 
it was a comfort to show Nelly Lynch that my poor wife 
was not grown an ugly, ould, bald-headed creathure ; and 
now I’ll always maintain, in spite of her teeth, that 
Molly died a clane, purty, sprightly girl, the notion of 
which puts the envious, jealous creathure out of her wits. 
I buried the poor ould soldier dacently, and as I never 
can have money enough to go to Dublin again to bring 
down Molly to lie among her people, faith, she must take 
the will for the deed, and be contint where she is. And 
for my part. Mistress Cassidy, now that I have not seen 
her so long, and never did see her as a corpse, I have 
the satisfaction, and a grate one it is, if you believe me, 
of thinking of her only as she was forty years ago, and 
that makes me feel quite young myself into the bargain.” 


The long narrative of Larry M’Swigger had beguiled 
the time of poor Grace, and he left her, promising an- 
other visit at no distant day. 


CHAPTER XL 

** Dans les conseils d’un 6tat, il ne faut pas tant regarder ce 
qu’on doit faire, que ce qu’on pent faire.” 

The letter that clouded the brow of Mr. Desmond 
came from the Secretary for Ireland ; it detailed the ex- 
aggerated accounts received at the Castle, and the anxiety 
of his Excellency the Lord Lieutenant to ascertain 
whether such reports were correct, and what steps the 
resident gentry considered would be most likely to es- 
tablish peace and good understanding in the country. 
Mr. Desmond made Colonel Forrester acquainted with its 
contents, who, in return, laid before him the letter from 
the General commanding his district, urging the neces- 
sity of keeping the troops always on the alert, and the 
officers at their posts. 

“ How, my dear young friend,” said Mr. Desmond, 
“ shall I answer this unanswerable letter ? There is so 
much truth mingled with the misrepresentations that have 
gone to the Castle, that it is difficult to draw the line be- 
tween what to believe or disbelieve. Judging by the 
actions of our poor misguided peasantry, the statements 
sent to his Excellency may be borne out, for, alas ! we 
all know that the actions of Irishmen are the avani- 
couriers of their intentions, instead of being, as in sober 
' England, the followers; and if they are judged by them, 
then must they be condemned. A prejudiced judge for 
or against might find sufficient evidence to acquit or con- 
demn them ; while I, who am impartial, see muck to 
lament, much to blame, and if the country was freed from 
the hateful influence of agitators, little to fear. But how 
5 ^ 


to suggest the remedy, how to cut the Gordian-knot of 
habitual misrule ; how solve that enigma, more difficult 
than that of the sphynx, and which has puzzled every 
statesman for centuries to expound, namely, — what is the 
best plan to govern Ireland peaceably ? First, get rid of 
agitators — buy them at any price ; for as well may a 
physician endeavour to bring back health to the system 
of a patient dying of fever, without having unseated the 
disease, as a government attempt to restore peace and 
good order to this country, until its moral typhus, so 
much more fatal than all the physical fevers that ever 
attacked it, is subdued. But while the government is 
deliberating, the evil gains ground. This very day there 
is a meeting of the association held at Kilmackthomas, 
where the seeds of discontent and dissension will be 
widely disseminated in the fruitful soil of the inflamma- 
ble minds of the people, to bring forth an abundant har- 
vest of mischief at no distant day. I hope, my dear 
Colonel, that I need not impress on your mind the pru- 
dence of not placing your brave troops too much at the 
beck of the alarmists. All collision between the people 
and the military leads to evil, and should only be had 
recourse to in cases of absolute necessity ; but here, in 
this unhappy, and, alas ! wilfully unhappy country, where 
every district presents opposing factions and interests, 
and v/here the good of the many is sacrificed to the ad- 
.vantage of the few, it is most difficult for a military man 
to know how to steer his course, and impossible to avoid 
being thought too lenient by the alarmists, and too severe 
by the disaffected. I shall go to Dublin, and reply in 
person to the letter from the Castle ; and as I am no 
jobber and have no object at heart, except the interest 
and welfare of my poor country, I shall be listened to 
with attention.” 

Mr. Desmond left the library to prepare for his de- 
parture, and Colonel Forrester sought the boudoir of Mrs. 
Desmond, where he knew he was certain of finding the 
fair Frances, pursuing her accustomed occupations of 
reading, working, or drawing, by the side of her mother. 


55 


Mr. Desmond ascertained that the meeting of Kil- 
mackthomas passed off more peaceably than he had ex- 
pected, though, as usual, inflammatory language had 
excited the passions of the people, who returned to their 
homes, bearing in their minds the seeds of discontent 
and sedition, ready to fructify into acts of hostility on 
the first occasion. He found that nearly the whole of 
his tenantry had attended the meeting, and were as loud 
and animated in their plaudits of the hyperbolical speeches 
of the popular speaker, as if they had personally expe- 
rienced all the miseries arising from the tyranny and 
oppression which the artful demagogue so glowingly de- 
picted. 

The good man felt grieved at their ingratitude, and 
sighed to think that a long life, passed in a conscientious 
and zealous discharge of the duties of a resident landlord, 
had made so little impression on their ductile feelings, 
and that the spirit-stirring words of the Kepealers could 
efface the deeds of the friend. It is such examples of 
ingratitude that wean people, less resolute than Mr. Des- 
mond in virtue and forbearance, from the discharge of 
their patriotic duties ; and send many a well-intentioned 
man, an absentee to other countries, where property and 
life are secured on a more solid basis than the impulses 
of passion, which madden into fury, or melt into regret, 
at the mandates of the factious exciter of the day, who- 
ever he may happen to be. 

“How long have I defended these misguided people,” 
said Mr. Desmond, “ and maintained that good treatment 
was all they required to render them good and happy ! 
What have I left undone ? And yet they now turn from 
my counsel as if I had been the most negligent of all the 
absentee landlords — nay, resent my offering them good 
advice, as if it was an encroachment on their personal 
liberty. ‘ Divide and govern,’ may well serve as the 
motto of the Repealers, for they have broken asunder all 
the ties of good-will between landlord and tenant ; mutual 
confidence is destroyed, and their interests, which are 
and must be inseparable, now only seem as a chain, that 


56 


holds together natural enemies instead of friends — a state 
of things that cannot last long, and must end in ruin to 
both.” 

The mob, like the ocean, is very seldom agitated with- 
out some cause superior and exterior to itself; but, to 
continue the simile, both are capable of doing the great- 
est mischief, after the cause which Jirst set them in mo- 
tion has ceased to act. He must be determined to shut 
his eyes and his ears against conviction, who is prepared 
to deny that Ireland has not had grievous cause for dis- 
content ; but he must be equally blind, who does not see 
that the time and money frittered away in quelling the 
tumults, which have been the effects of a long period of 
misrule, might have done much towards removing the 
cause, and that the persons who excite the violence of 
the people retard the amelioration which the justice of 
England is disposed to grant them. 

How large a portion of every session of Parliament is 
occupied in debates on measures of severity, and modes 
of punishment, which might be so much better employed 
in devising means of rendering severity and punishment 
unnecessary ! But violence demands to be checked, and 
the consequences of the evil that has existed in Ireland 
for centuries, occupy the time that ought to be filled in 
removing the original cause, until Ireland and the Irish 
become 

Words of fear, 

Unpleasing to each member’s ear.’* 

What has given power to agitators ? Misrule. And 
what will most effectually destroy their inffuence ? — the 
removal of the just grounds of discontent. Let the peo- 
ple be made to understand that their tranquillity and or- 
derly conduct will insure attention to their grievances, 
and consideration as to the means of redressing them; 
and this instruction will do more towards opening their 
eyes to the folly of their violence, than the most harsh 
though necessary laws. He would be, indeed, a true 


57 


friend to Ireland, who would use his influence over her 
excitable sons, in impressing on their minds a respect for 
the laws, and a horror for the acts of blood-stained cru- 
elty that have so often sullied them. Such a man might 
be proud of his empire over them, when he could boast 
that he found his countrymen savages and left them men. 


CHAPTER XII. 

“ Qui ne sent rien, parle a merveille ; 

Dontes d’un amant rempli d’6sprit ; 

C’est ton coeur, et non ton oreille, 

Qui doit ^couter ce qu*il dit.” 

We left Colonel Forrester entering the boudoir of Mrs. 
Desmond. He seated himsel* by Frances, who was en- 
gaged in copying a bouquet, placed in a vase on the table ; 
the flowers had been gathered that morning by Colonel 
Forrester, who presented them to Frances, and he felt 
flattered by observing the interest with which she was 
perpetuating their lovely hues on the paper before her. 

“ What a delightful and enviable talent you possess, 
Miss Desmond,” said the Colonel, “ in thus being able 
to fix the evanescent beauty of those bright but frail flow- 
ers, and to retain the shadow when the substance shall 
have passed away. When I gathered them this morn- 
ing, their leaves sparkling with dew, I thought how soon 
they must fade and wither, and that a few hours would 
behold them robbed of all their beauty. I did not think 
that I should see them transfixed on paper, as blooming 
and fair as when I culled them, and borrowing from your 
pencil an immortality that Nature has denied them. How 
admirably you have coloured the petals of the rose ! it 
looks as if the next zephyr’s breath might send it float- 
ing in the air — how I wish it w’as mine !” 

The cheeks of Frances almost rivalled the rose she 
was copying, at this address, and became still more suf- 


58 


fused when her mother replied, “ I am sure Frances will 
have great pleasure in giving it to you.” 

“ Certainly,” said Frances, “ but it is hardly worth 
offering. I have some drawings that are better.” 

“ Oh! no, let me have this,” said Colonel Forrester; 
“ I prefer it to all others.” 

A certain bashful consciousness betrayed that Frances 
knew why he preferred it. 

“ I never,” said Frances, “ pluck a bouquet without a 
sort of melancholy feeling of how short must be the du- 
ration of the beauties that tempte-d me to make it mine. 
I believe this is a sentiment partaken of in common with 
every one who can feel ; for we find it expressed in all 
languages, and in all times ; and its generality deducts 
nothing from its truth. Nay, I rather think that it adds 
to its intensity, as in experiencing what has been thought 
by so many, the bond of union that binds us to our spe- 
cies is strengthened, and we recognize the universal sym- 
pathy.” 

“ I remember,” said Colonel Forrester, having seen 
a beautiful album in France, that was displayed to me as 
the ne plus ultra of sentimentality. It was entitled ‘ La 
Guirlande de Julie,'* and contained copies of the bou- 
quets presented to her each day by her lover during his 
courtship. The flowers were elaborately painted by the 
first artists of the day, and the verses that accompanied 
them were quite as laboured ; those of the lover perhaps 
less so than the others, but still showing that the ima- 
gination had more share in the affair than the heart. Of 
all displays, that of sentimentality is the one I feel the 
least disposed to pardon,” continued Colonel Forrester, 
“ because it shows a premeditation incompatible with 
real feeling. False sentiment ajffiches, but true sentiment 
betrays itself ; and I am inclined to doubt whether the 
hymeneal wreath of Julie contained as gay flowers as 
those painted in the exotic garland ; and whether Le Due 
de Penthievre was not more formed for a lover than a 
husband. I remember an acquaintance of mine, a young 
Frenchman, who wore the ignoble chains of a Jbeesse 


59 


dt Theatre, and who, during the grande passion, col- 
lected the bouquets and guirlandes showered on his fa- 
vourite every night that she acted, and preserved them in 
an armoire. He displayed them to me, and seemed dis- 
appointed that I showed no sentiment on the occasion. 
To me they smelt of the lamps, and brought back set 
phrases, artificial looks, and an applauding audience, 
whose plaudits stamped as public property that which a 
lover, to have any allusion, must wish to consider pri- 
vate ; and with such,' souvenirs, the withered flowers 
looked as meretricious as the goddess to whom they had 
been dedicated. The ‘ Guirlande de Julie,' copied by 
paid hands, and the verses written by wit instead of pas- 
sion, excited much the same feeling. Had the loved or 
the lover copied the flowers, then I would have owned 
the ‘ soft impeachment as it was, I felt impenetrable. 
But here am I talking of flowers and sentiments when I 
ought to be endeavouring to forget both, as what makes 
me feel the charms of one and the other must be aban- 
doned, for I must leave Springmount.” 

“ Leave Springmount !” exclaimed Frances, and her 
cheek lost its rosy hue ; “ why, when do you go ?” 
Then, as if sensible of the feeling her abrupt questions 
betrayed, she added, “ I hope you are not obliged to 
leave us so very soon.” 

At this moment a servant entered, to announce that 
Mr. Desmond wished to speak with Mrs. Desmond in 
the library. The lovers were left alone, and the height- 
ened colour and agitated breathing of Frances showed 
how much she felt the delicacy and awkwardness of their 
position. Colonel Forrester detected all that was pass- 
ing in her mind, and, with the intuitive tact that belongs 
to true passion, saw that he must be explicit, or else 
leave her under the mortifying conviction that she. had 
revealed a preference unsought by him who had ex- 
cited it. 

To avow the sentiment she had inspired, and the mo- 
tives that prevented his declaring them to her before, was 
the business of a few minutes. With the candour and 


60 


simplicity that marked all her actions and thoughts, Fran- 
ces Desmond confessed that his avowal had given her 
pleasure, and that she believed her father and mother 
loved her too well to disapprove her choice. She added 
that she had never concealed a thought from them, and, 
therefore, wished that he should make them acquainted 
with his feelings. 

We will pass over all the lover-like raptures of Colo- 
nel Forrester, and the chastened delight with which Fran- 
ces listened to them, until Mrs. Desmond entered, on 
which Frances having hastily retired, the lover opened 
the state of his heart to the mother of his beloved, ar 
was listened to with nearly as much complacency as ■... 
had been by the daughter. 

A mother, who feels as a mother ought, hears the fix. ■ 
avowal of a passion excited by her child, with much of 
the same trembling anxiety with which she heard the 
first declaration of love for herself. Her daughter is a 
dearer self ; one in whom she sees her youth renewed. 
She has the same sensitiveness for her, rendered more 
acute by experience. The mingled feelings of pleasure 
at the admiration excited, and the anxiety for the future, 
with the always painful vista of separation, produce an 
agitation even more durable than that of the daughter. 

“ Speak to my husband,” said Mrs. Desmond, “and 
if he approves, I can have no objection. I do not ask you 
to love rny child, because I know it is unnecessary; but 
I ask you, I implore you, never to forget that' she has 
been an only, an idolized child, accustomed to be watched 
over, shielded, and cherished, and to whom unkindness 
is unknown.” 

The affectionate warmth with which Colonel Forres- 
ter pressed the mother’s hand to his lips, as he avowed 
that the happiness of her daughter should be his first, his 
most precious care, carried balm to the heart of Mrs. 
Desmond, and she felt that in giving her daughter to this 
excellent young man, she lost not her, but gained a son. 

There is no occasion in human life which furnishes a 
better criterion for judging a family, than that of the mar- 


61 


riage of a daughter. The mother who sees her child 
about to leave the home of her childhood, the happy scene 
of her infancy, without feeling anxiety and dread, and 
without endeavouring to attach to her by links of love 
the new found son on whom the future happiness of her 
child is to depend, must possess little of the sentiments 
that a mother ought to have ; and the daughter who can 
leave the home of her happy, careless infancy, the mo- 
ther who watched over her, and the sisters who shared 
her pastimes, without a tender regret, and without en- 
deavouring to excite in the breast of her future husband 
a portion of the affection she feels for those dear rela- 
tions, must have a character that promises but little for 
the discharge of the duties she is about to undertake. In 
such circumstances the husband has no reason to be proud 
of the cheerfulness with which he is followed to the nup- 
tial home. 

Colonel Forrester met wnth nearly as tender a hearing 
from the father as had been accorded to him by the mo- 
ther of his beloved ; but Mr. Desmond made his consent 
conditional on his quitting the army. “ A married soldier 
1 never could approve of,” said the good old gentleman, 
“ as I am of the old opinion that ‘ Cupid may wear a red 
coat, but Hymen never.’ Under such circumstances, a 
man must be a bad husband or a bad soldier; the duties 
of both are incompatible, and I will not have my son-in- 
law either. Therefore, my dear young friend, the army 
must be given up.” 

If such a proposition had been made to Colonel For- 
rester before he had known Frances Desmond, he would 
have felt it as an insult; but, as the condition of being 
blessed with her hand, he hesitated not a moment in 
acceding to it; and, accompanied by Mr. Desmond, he 
sought the boudoir, to announce to Mrs. Desmond the 
consent of her husband. This time he was not content 
with simply pressing his lips to the hand of his future 
mother, but pressed them to the cheek, and a happier 
group could not be found than the boudoir now contained. 
Frances was summoned to partake the general joy, and 

VOL. I. 6 


63 


the tears from her eyes that bedewed the cheeks of her 
parents, had no bitterness in them, as, alternately pressed 
in their arms, they embraced her again and again. It 
was decided that Mr. Desmond should not set out for 
Dublin until next day, and Colonel Forrester wanted but 
little persuasion to postpone his departure for head-quar- 
ters until the same moment. 

My readers must imagine all that persons under such 
circumstances are likely to feel. Those who have been 
similarly placed, have only to exercise the powers of 
memory; and those who have yet to experience the 
position, must endeavour to picture it in their minds. 
Whether the former or the latter are most likely to draw 
a just notion of the feelings of the lovers, is not for us to 
decide; inasmuch as the result will be influenced in pro- 
portion as memory or imagination happens to be most 
powerful in such as depend on the agency of those facul- • 
ties. /For ourselves, we lean to imagination, and, there- 
fore, have formed in our mind’s eye, a brilliant tableau 
of this happy day at Springmount; but, like all days, 
happy or unhappy, it finished at about the usual hour. 

There are some people whom it is difficult to convince 
of the even tenour of the march of time. These sceptics 
are the happy and the unhappy. The first believe that 
he gallops, and the second are convinced that he crawls ; 
and it is only those who are neither exalted nor depressed, 
that can really judge of his paces. If we gave our opi- 
nion on this momentous point, it would furnish a clue to 
the inquisitive, for guessing to which class we belong; 
and as we neither wish to excite envy, by being supposed 
to belong to the happy sceptics, or pity (because we like 
not pity) by being considered among the unhappy, we 
will even leave it to others to decide “ who time ambles 
withal, who time trots withal, who time gallops withal, 
and who he stands still withal;” merely promising that 
the venders of curls, rouge, and all the list of et cetera, 
to supply the place of youthful charms, maintain that he 
never stands still, whatever else he may do. 


63 


CHAPTER XIII. 

Here’s a large mouth, indeed, 

That spits forth death, and mountains, rocks, and seas ; 

' Talks as familiarly of roaring lions 

As maids of thirteen do of puppy-dogs.” 

“ Well, sure, Grace, there never was so fine a speech 
as Mr. O’Blarney gave us to-day,” said Jim Cassidy to 
his wife, on entering the cottage and dropping his wea- 
ried person into a chair; “ faith, I wish you’d been there, 
for it would have, melted the heart out of your body, 
burnt up the marrow in your bones, and set the blood 
galloping all through your veins. One thing he said, 
which I’ll never forget, ’twas so moving; he said that the 
French had a way, and a cruel way sure enough it is, to 
put their live geese before the fire, and keep ’em there, 
giving ’em salt and water to drink, till the heat swelled 
up their livers so big that they cOuld no longer contain 
’em, and the poor creathures were killed to save their 
lives ; and these same big livers were made into pies, 
and sent all over France and England to be eaten by the 
epicures. ‘ Now,’ says Mr. O’Blarney, ‘ we are served 
like the poor geese at Perigord (I think he called it). 
We are put before the fire of bad treatment, and forced 
to gulp down the salt of hard usage, ’till our hearts be- 
come too big for our bodies, and then we are hung, or 
transported, or imprisoned, to cure our complaints.’ Sure, 
Grace, this was very moving; it dhrew tears from many 
of the people, though that foolish boy. Bill Mullouny, 
began to laugh, and said he’d never see a goose without 
thinking of the Repalers.” 

Grace, though little disposed to smile at the moment, 
could not resist yielding to the impulse, and Jim looked 
at her with a face of seriousness that indicated he thought 
the smile little short of profanation, so impressed was he 
with the pathetic imagery in the speech of O’Blarney. 


64 


3 .: 


“ Sure, Grace, these are no limes for laughing,” said 
Jim, “ when the whole coiinthry is up, and determined 
to have justice. Sure we’re carrying everything before 
us ; all the elections are in our favour, and ther’ll be more 
Irishmen and Catholics, ay, be my soul, and Repalers 
too, in the Parliament in England, than of our enemies ; 
and as every rale Irishman can make a speech out of 
nothing, whereas them English are mighty sparing of 
their words, and come out with ’em only as they do with 
their guineas, when they think they are really wanted, 
sure we’ll bother ’em entirely, and dhrive ’em out of the 
place ; they’ll be so tired of hearing all the Repaling 
members speechifying one after another, in the rich ele- 
gant brogue of the poor ould counthry. And then sure, 
if the English members say a word against us, haven’t 
we plenty of our own friends that will tell ’em they’ll 
talk to ’em in another place? which manes they’ll be for 
offering ’em gunpowder tay, and sugar a lead for their 
breakhists, which they’ll not like to take, for the English 
are not half so fond of fighting as we are, in a sociable 
way, and think people can raison without pistols, which, 
after all, every Irish gentleman knows is the argument 
that hits oftenest. Then they’ll not like to be made cry, 
when our speechifiers comes over ’em with all the melt- 
ing mournful descriptions of our slavery ; and they’ll soon 
be glad to join all together, and ax the King to let us 
have a Parliament of our own in Dublin, for sake of peace 
and quietness, and to get rid of us. What a blessing it 
is for me to be able to read the newspaper down at the 
Cat and Bagpipes, and so know all they say in the Par- 
liament! though I must say Mr. O’Blarney, long may 
he live to reign over us ! didn’t spake half so elegantly 
in London as he does in the ould counthry; but I sup- 
pose he thought that giving ’em the same fine words he 
gives us, would be throwing pearls before swine, for they 
haven’t the gumption to understand ’em. 

“ That man might do anything with us, Grace,” con- 
tinued Jim, “ every word he says makes the heart beat 
quicker; sure, I’ve heard/Pom Jeffreys, that was in Por- 


65 


tugal with the cavalry, say, that when they were going 
into battle, and that many of ’em felt a little quare, the 
sound of the trumpets roused up their courage, and the 
very horses became impatient to rush into action, such a 
power had that music on man and baist. Now, this is 
the effect that O’Blarney’s speeches have on us : we go 
to hear him, half inclmed to go no more, talked over 
against it by landlords, fathers, mothers, and wives ; but 
before he has spoken half an hour, ay ! be my troth ten 
miinites, it’s all over with us : the heart begins to thump 
against the side, the chest begins to heave up as if it 
hadn’t half room, one gets hot and could fits by turns, 
that rush up to the very roots of the hair, and landlords, 
fathers, mothers, and wives, are no more thought of than 
if they never were in the world. He might lead us to 
death that very minute ; we’d face the mouth of a can- 
non, and glory in every danger, while his words are 
tingling in our ears ; but when we come home, and see 
the friends we love unhappy, and a wife like yourself, 
dear Grace, looking pale and sorrowful, all the grand 
thoughts he puts into our heads go clean out of ’em ; 
and when we thry to remember them, it’s all like a 
throubled dream, and one feels quite tired and low-spi- 
rited, and cross-like, just as I used to feel the morning 
after I had. taken the wicked whisky, out of humour with 
myself and all the world. Sure, I wish the King of Eng- 
land would make O’Blarney King of Ireland, for then 
’twould be his interest to keep us all quiet and dacent, 
and as he can do what he likes^with us, ’twould be as 
aisy for him to make us orderly as to make us what we 
are, and the families at home would be satisfied, and we 
wouldn’t be argufying as we all now are always doing, 
more’s the pity. 

“ Sure, Grace,” Jim continued, after a short pause, 
“ the power that a man like O’Blarney can gain over 
hundreds and thousands of his fellow-creatures, is almost 
like witchcraft, and the more one thinks of it, the more 
wonderful it appears. His words stir up thoughts and 
feelings that were sleeping in the mind, and that are as 


66 


obedient to his call as are the soldiers called out on the 
parade as I saw at Dimgarvan. And then to think that 
this power, this mighty power, comes not from wealth, 
from station, or from anything but the strength of master 
thoughts, and big words, which have greater power than 
flaming swords, and can madden or melt ; it’s a quare 
thing, Grace, and we can no more account for it than we 
can explain why some music, and some perfumes, work 
our feelings into joy or sadness, bring back pleasant or 
bitter thoughts, over which we have no control.” 

“ I believe, Jim dear,” said Grace, “ that it is be- 
cause we all have in our hearts some feelings that remain 
quietly there, until they are touched by some one who 
knows how to play on ’em. Look at the pipes that 
Kernes Fitzpatrick can make send out the most sweet 
and doleful tunes, until the hearts of those that hear them 
are as soft and dismal as themselves, and seem to sigh 
back an echo to every note ; and then hear him play the 
‘ Foxhunter’s Jigg,’ the ‘ Moddhoreen Rhu,’ or any of 
the hundred wild, joyous, frolicsome tunes he gives us; 
and one forgets every melancholy thought, and is ready 
to jump out of one’s very skin for gladness. If his notes 
didn’t find some notes in our hearts that answered ’em, 
’twould be quite another guess thing ; and so it is with 
Mr. O’Dlarney- — he awakens up the sleeping thoughts, 
but, och ! Jim, he only awakens to intoxicate ’em, and 
uses the gift of God, big and burning words, to scorch 
those he plays ’em off on. 1 dont like to say I detest 
him, Jim, because it’s a hard word to come from a wo- 
man’s lips ; but when I think of the good he might do, 
and the harm he does, sure I think he’s for all the world 
like a comet, bright and flaming, that all gaze on, but 
that all dread to come too near.” 

“ Who ever lived, Grace awourneen, so mane and 
chiLken-hearted, as not to feel his spirit rise at the fine 
word ‘ Liberty,’ and his cheek grow red with shame at 
the word ‘ Slave V These are the words with which 
O’Blarney can madden us, for our hearts understand ’em, 
though our heads do not ; and often’s the time that my 


poor head is all in a cumfluster, when I can’t tell what 
I mane or what I wish, except that I would die for 
liberty, and kill him who would enslave me. There’s 
two kind of senses — the sense of the head, which is all 
for money and prudence, and the sense of the heart, 
which is all for liberty and love. They never are good 
friends together, and troth, I believe few Irishmen have 
miTch share of the first, though they have so much of the 
second. People say of a man he has a sensible head, 
but they never say he has a sensible heart.” 

“ And how could they, Jim dear ?” said Grace, “ see- 
ing as how if the heart was sensible, it would not act so 
as to vex itself, and you must allovv that those who fol- 
low what they call liberty, generally soon take leave of 
love. Liberty, according to.my notion, Jim, is something 
so fine, so pure, and holy, that it couldn’t burn in a heart 
without making it better; and all the sins and crimes that 
are committed in its name, only prove to me that they 
who commit ’em are guilty of two great crimes, those of 
falseness, and throwing a bad repute on what ought to 
be free from stain. I can fancy dying, or slaying in the 
field of battle, felling, or falling with a thousand wounds, 
to preserve one’s country, one’s family, or one’s honour; 
but to commit murders on poor wretches who cannot 
defend themselves, to burn, and destroy, and say that 
such base crimes are in the cause of liberty — och ! Jim, 
it’s a sin and a shame, and he who rouses you with the 
name, leaves you to worship a blood-stained shadow, in- 
stead of teaching you to adore the purest of all feelings, 
and one that never can make her dwelling but in noble 
hearts that turn from cruelty and crime. He leads ye 
with the name, but leaves ye in ignorance of the sub- 
stance,” 


68 


CHAPTER XIV. 

“ It is an easy and vulgar thing to please the mob, and not 
a very arduous thing to astonish them; but essentially to benefit 
and to improve them, is a work fraught with difficulty, and 
teeming with danger.’^ 

On arriving in Dublin, Mr. Desmond waited on the 
Secretary, and met the ready attention which his own 
high character so well deserved. He found Mr. Manly 
the enlightened and intelligent gentleman he had been 
led to expect, deeply impressed with the alarming state 
of the country, and truly anxious to tranquillize it by every 
means in his power. While doing justice to the states- 
manlike views of the Secretary, and the unbending 
honesty with which he pursued the line marked out by 
duty, though thereby exposing himself to the unjust 
odium of popular clamour, — heaped on him by those 
who could not, or would not, render justice to the purity 
of his motives, or the firmness and ability with which he 
resisted intimidation, — Mr. Desmond was forced to admit 
that it was peculiarly unfortunate, that, at such a crisis, 
the person placed in so arduous a situation united not a 
more conciliatory manner to the various solid and excel- 
lent qualities that adorned him. 

The coldness and hauteur of Mr. Manly’s manner, lent 
a sternness and severity to observations which, if made 
in a more good-natured tone, might have had a less repul- 
sive effect on his hearers. C^est Vair qui fait le chan- 
son, is, an old phrase that one was perpetually reminded 
of when listening to him, for the matter of his observa- 
tions on Ireland had nothing harsh or unkind ; on the 
contrary, it was dispassionate and full of forbearance ; but 
the manner was cold and repulsive. 

Mr. Desmond had mixed too much with the world, not 
to make ample allowance for the Jierte of a na.urally proud 
and noble mind, at finding itself for the first time opposed 


69 


to elements so jarring and uncongenial as those which 
constituted the minds of the greater part of the persons 
with whom Mr. Manly was brought in contact in Ire- 
land. The habits of strict veracity, so indispensable in 
the character of a gentleman in England, peculiarly unfit 
him for looking with a lenient eye on the habitual disre- 
gard to truth that candour compels us to own is one of 
the characteristic and besetting sins of Ireland : hence a 
constitutional coldness and hauteur on the part of the 
high-born Secreta'ry, had been increased by his con- 
tinually witnessing the misrepresentations, wilful or un- 
intentional, of those who approached him ; but it soon 
wore oflf when he found himself with persons on whose 
assertions he could place faith. 

From the Castle, Mr. Desmond proceeded to the Lodge 
at the Phoenix Park, the summer residence of the Lord 
Lieutenant, where he received a most kind and cordial 
reception from the Viceroy. It would have been difficult, 
if not impossible, to have found a nobleman in England 
more calculated to fill with distinction the high situation 
to which he was appointed in Ireland, than the Marquis 
of Mona. Brave to a proverb, frank, generous, and un- 
suspicious, he was the very heau ideal of chivalry. To 
the gallant bearing of a soldier he united the fierte of 
aristocracy, softened down by high breeding and . grace 
of manner, as peculiar as it ws captivating. Mr. Des- 
mond had long known and learned to estimate his noble 
qualities, and, as was the case with all who approached 
the Viceroy, the frankness of his demeanour, gained on 
the confidence of the fine old man, who listened with 
pleased attention to the animated and feeling representa- 
tions of the Marquis ; all of which only served to con- 
vince him more strongly of that which he had never 
allowed his mind to doubt — the warm and deep interest 
the Lord Lieutenant entertained for the country he go- 
verned. 

A greater proof of the wish of the English Government 
to conciliate Ireland, could hardly be given than in select- 
ing as her Viceroy a nobleman so calculated to charm 


70 


the sympathies of the people. In this spirit was he re- 
ceived, and wherever he publicly appeared, his presence 
was hailed with an universal enthusiasm, until defama- 
tion propagated a thousand slanders, which every action 
of his, if properly viewed, must have refuted, but which 
it was too much the interest of the propagators to keep 
alive ; so that he who was formed to be the idol of the 
enthusiastic, warm-hearted, and generous nation he was 
sent to rule, was held up to them as the betrayer of their 
interests — one whom they were neither to trust noi* to 
love. 

When Mr. Desmond was made acquainted with the 
multiplied and conflicting reports of the state of the coun- 
try sent up to the Castle, he no longer marvelled at the 
impossibility of the Irish Government being able to arrive 
at just conclusions, and, consequently, to apply remedies. 
The statements sent from his own county alone were so 
various and contradictory, that on perusing them, he al- 
most doubted the evidence of his senses. 

Each reporter viewed, or at least represented, the state 
of affairs through the medium of his own political feel- 
ings and prejudices. An ultra Tory Lord wrote that the 
country was in open rebellion. Anarchy and confusion 
reigned around; the Church was in danger; and the Pro- 
testant ascendancy tottering. All this (as was more than 
insinuated by the writer) proceeded from the impolitic 
measure of granting the Catholics emancipation, and not 
compelling the strong body of the people of Ireland to 
bow to the supremacy of the weak. The Irish Govern- 
ment were reproached indirectly with their ill-judged 
lenity, and an air of triumphant self-complacency at the 
shrewdness and superior judgment of the writer, per- 
vaded v/hat was meant to be a true and impartial state- 
ment of evils, the source of which he was more anxious 
to attribute to the Government than to remedy. Party feel- 
ing, narrow prejudices, and illiberal sentiments, marked 
every line of the Orange Lord’s sapient epistle ; all that 
he reported seemed tinged with the atrabilarious hue of 
his own politics ; and Mr. Desmond finished its perusal 


71 




f 


with disgust, to look over the report of a liberal county 
member. 

Here again disappointment awaited him. Instead of 
a simple statement of facts ^ he found a recapitulation of 
motives^ all coloured with the glowing tints of the wri- 
ter’s imagination, and evidently painted with a view to 
produce a scenic effect at some future election. The 
tyranny of Protestants who, forsooth, had the audacity 
to protect their rights 'and properties, was .dwelt on w'ith 
unmitigated censure*; and Mr. Desmond, on perusing the 
inflated detail, seriously wished that an attentive study of 
“ Crabbe’s Synonymes” might be recommended to the 
Irish gentlemen to be laid on their tables, with “Burn’s 
Justice’s Guide,” as some restraint on their powers of 
hyperbole. 

The statement of the liberal was laid by, with opinions 
similar to those which had been excited by the perusal 
of the ultra Tory’s report ; and Mr. Desmond felt a sen- 
timent of increased admiration mingle with the respect 
due to those distinguished members of the English aris- 
tocracy, who could consent to leave their happy and 
civilized country, their tranquil homes, and agreeable 
habits of life and society, to accept the office of viceroy 
in a semi-barbarous kingdom, torn by factions, where the 
wisdom of the serpent, the courage of the lion, and the 
peacefulness of the dove, would be powerless when op- 
posed ta people determined to ruin their country for the 
mere gratification of wreaking a mutual and individual 
vengeance. 

Mr. Desmond failed not to impress on the Lord Lieu- 
tenant’s mind, that the statements he had read were 
founded in error, and that the mass of the people were but 
as tools in the hands of those who wielded them for their 
own selfish and interested purposes. “Deprive such 
hands of power, my Lord,” said he, “and their weapons 
become useless ; but if, as hitherto, the people are pu- 
nished for the crimes of those who lead them into danger, 
and then evade responsibility, little progress is made in 
staying the evil that has been undermining Ireland for 


72 


years. As well might the combustible materials that 
spread conflagration be considered the cause of the flames, 
instead of the incendiary who applied the torch to them, 
as the misguided,- impetuous, warm-hearted peasantry be 
condemned for the excesses to which they have been led 
by the artful and designing men who make a merchan- 
dise of the very qualities that are but the exuberance of 
a too rich soil, and traffic with the excited passions of 
those ductile people. The more I love my country, my 
Lord, and pity its deluded peasantry, the more 1 loathe 
those who lead them like victims to the sacrifice.” 


CHAPTER XV. 

“If these alone who ‘sowed the wind did reap the whirl- 
wind,’ it would be well. But the mischief is, that the blind- 
ness of bigotry, the madness of ambition, and the miscalcula- 
tions of diplomacy, seek their victims principally amongst the 
innocent and the unoffending. The cottage is sure to suffer 
for every error of the court, the cabinet, or the camp.” 

Mr. Desmond found the Lord Lieutenant and Secre- 
tary so disposed to try every effort of conciliation before 
they called in the strong arm of power, that he thought 
it his duty to impress on them the utter hopelessness of 
such measures. 

“ The country is now, my lord, in that state,” said he, 
“that the people must be taught to fear the laws before 
they can respect them ; and, unhappily, conciliation in 
the present moment would be more likely to be viewed 
as a proof of the weakness than of the kindness of the 
Government. There is no protection for person or for 
property. Who can count for twenty-four hours on a 
people whom an inflated speech from an agitator may 
send forth to use physically the firebrands he has been 
morally scattering abroad? Is it to be borne with, that 
any man is to be allowed the volcanic power of rocking 
a whole kingdom to its centre, whenever he chooses to 


73 


send forth his mandates? No, my lord; were an indi- 
vidual to be found who could use such power wisely and 
moderately, never wielding it but for the benefit of his 
countrymen, even then, it would be dangerous and unwise 
to permit his retention of it. Such precedents are full 
of danger ; they offer an opportunity to every political 
adventurer to elevate himself on the ruins of his country. 
Tranquillize Ireland, what becomes of its agitators? 
They know that they must sink into comparative insig- 
nificance ; and rather would they make a funeral pile of 
the kingdom, and consume themselves on it, than wil- 
lingly abandon “ the fearful and dizzy height” to which 
they have elevated themselves at the expense of their 
country. The people are proud of the Colossus they 
have reared ; they admire their own strength, as displayed 
in supporting this proof of its unhealthy exuberance, but 
the moment that strength is directed to useful and pro- 
fitable purposes, they will see their past delusion, and 
abandon their errors.” 

Mr. Desmond was invited to dine at the Phoenix Park, 
and while partaking the hospitality of the Viceroy, Was 
pleased to see assembled round his splendid board all the 
rank and talent that Dublin could boast. The polished 
urbanity of the noble host, the amiable politeness of his 
high-born and high-bred wife, and the interesting group 
of young people around them, whose attentions to their 
father’s guests were as delicate as they were judicious, 
were highly gratifying to a mind like Mr. Desmond’s, 
who felt that all he saw was indicative of the cordial good 
will, and spirit of conciliation, which had marked the 
conduct of the gallant and generous Viceroy from the 
moment of his touching Irish ground ; and he mentally 
execrated the pernicious counsels that would pervert the 
people, or induce them to wish to dissolve the bond of 
union that linked them to a country which could send 
such examples of all that was most excellent amongst 
them. 

Before leaving the Lodge, Mr. Desmond could not re- 
frain from expressing the pleasure he should feel, if the 

VOL. I. 7 


74 


Marquess and Marchioness of Mona made a tour through 
the South of Ireland, and honoured Springmount with 
their presence. 

While acknowledging the hospitality and politeness of 
the invitation, the gallant Marquess declined it, and Mr. 
Desmond felt that delicacy and tact dictated the refusal. 
Had the Viceroy undertaken a tour, it must have been 
made with something of “the pomp and circumstance” 
of regal splendour. All the great houses passed by 
without a visit, even though a visit was unsought, would 
become focuses of discontent, around which the satel- 
lites of each would rally ; and to prevent this, the Lord 
Lieutenant declined many an invitation where his pre- 
sence could not have failed to excite affection and good- 
will. 

Unhappy is the country whose ruler is forced to such 
self-denial, and unhappy the people who are deprived of 
ocular demonstration of the qualities of him to whom 
their destinies are confided, and whom they only know 
through the medium of misrepresentation ! 

Mr. Desmond left Dublin next day, being most anx- 
ious to join his family, and feeling that the present was 
not a time to leave them to the tender mercies of the mis- 
guided peasantry in the country. He travelled rapidly, 
and observed with inquietude the groups of idle gloomy- 
looking persons that were loitering around the inns in all 
the towns where he changed horses, and who examined 
him with curious eyes, as if they expected some exciting 
intelligence. 

On drawing nearer home, he was surprised to find 
that he was no longer welcomed by the animated saluta- 
tions, and reiterated professions of affection, with which 
the people had been wont to receive him. His carriage 
being recognized, a respectful, but cold uncovering of the 
head, was the only notice given to him. 

“Poor unhappy people!” thought Mr. Desmond, “ it 
is thus you always repay those who are your best, your 
truest friends. When will you learn to distinguish be- 
tween the egotistical political speculators who use you 


75 


as their tools, and those who would honestly and honour- 
ably serve you? You murdered a Mountjoy, a kind, a 
noble, and true friend ; and you insulted and would have 
destroyed a Grattan, whose genius, whose patriotism, 
threw a halo over his country.” 

The recollection of the two persons whose memories 
he had invoked, brought sadness to the heart of Mr. Des- 
mond. The Lord Mountjoy had been the friend of his 
early youth, and was the model on which he had formed 
himself. The chivalrous sense of honour, the love of 
literature and of the fine arts, and above all, the devotion 
to his country, which distinguished that amiable and be- 
loved nobleman, had endeared him to all who knew him ; 
but by Mr. Desmond, — who had been the companion of 
his travels in Italy, and who, though many years his 
junior, had learned to appreciate his noble qualities, — he 
had ever been revered as a bright example of virtue, 
whose tragic death, met at the hands of those whose in- 
terests his life had been spent in upholding, was never 
remembered but with sorrow and with bitterness. Grat- 
tan, great, good, and glorious Grattan, whose genius was 
only equalled by his honesty, and whose long and ho- 
nourable life was passed in advocating the cause of free- 
dom, but who, while worshipping the pure flame of 
liberty, turned with honest disgust from the destroying 
fire of license. 

“And can it be,” thought Mr. Desmond, “that this 
fickle, this ungrateful people, can forget the pure idol 
they worshipped, to set up in its stead the man of law, 
who can calculate how far democracy can safely go, and 
where ends the line of demarcation between agitation and 
treason?” 

Such thoughts were indeed bitter. Mr. Desmond 
dwelt on the hopes of his youth, when he had looked 
forward to seeing his country emerge from the dark 
cloud that overshadowed it, and, emulating England, 
make rapid strides to civilization. How had those hopes 
been frustrated ! — Whig and tory governments had alter- 
nately applied themselves to redressing the evils under 


76 


which she groaned for centuries, but had applied them- 
selves in vain; and now, after yielding emancipation, 
which had been considered as the panacea that was to heal 
every disease, and all parties concluded that tranquillity 
would be established, a new ignis fatuus sprang up to 
mislead this reckless people, and conduct them to the 
very verge of utter ruin. Thus, in his declining life, Mr. 
Desmond endured that bitter infliction for a patriotic spi- 
rit ; — the misery of witnessing the civilization and hap- 
piness of his unfortunate country retrograding much 
more rapidly than he had ever seen them advance. 


CHAPTER XVI. 

** Adieu for him 

The dull engagements of the bustling world! 

Adieu the sick impertinence of praise, 

And hope, and action! for with her alone. 

By streams and shades to steal these sighing hours 
Is all he asks, and all that fate can give!” 

When Colonel Forrester returned to Waterford, he 
found that the few days which had elapsed during his 
absence, had been marked by fresh riots, tumultuous 
meetings, and resistance to the laws. On sending his 
resignation to the War Offlee, he regretted the being 
obliged to withdraw his services at a crisis which threat- 
ened to require them. But his promise was pledged, and 
he felt that under the circumstances of his present en- 
gagement, his first duty was to attend to the happiness 
of his future wife and that of her parents, which happi- 
ness, he was decidedly of opinion, could only be secured 
by their fixing their residence in England. 

His brother officers heard that they were to lose Co- 
lonel Forrester with deep regret, for he was as univer- 
sally as he was deservedly beloved and respected in his 
regiment. The few days that must pass ere he could re- 
ceive the acceptance of his resignation, he determined to 


77 


remain at head-quarters ; but he daily despatched a ser- 
vant with letters to Springmount, and thence, in return, 
received tidings fraught with affection. 

An authority, whom to doubt would be profanation, has 
said that “ the course of true love never did run smooth 
and, according to all received usage, we have committed 
an unusual solecism in allowing our hero and heroine to 
meet, love, and become affianced lovers, without any of 
the usual obstacles that intervene on such occasions. 
Yet, they loved not the less ardently because no such 
obstacles had occurred ; and had the father of the heroine 
been a domestic tyrant, who refused to listen to the 
pleadings of affection, and forbade the lover the sight of 
his daughter, they could not be more anxious or impa- 
tient to meet again. 

“ What !” exclaims one of my female readers, “ when 
there was neither risk nor difficulty in the meeting ? no 
mother to be deceived, and no father to be outwitted 

It is even so, kind and gentle reader, but then, remem- 
ber, that Frances Desmond resembled in nought, save in 
beauty, a heroine of romance, according to the received 
notions of such a personage ; and that her lover as little 
resembled a hero, except in being handsome, brave, and 
in love. Nay we must add, that the certainty that Co- 
lonel Forrester’s presence would be hailed with delight 
by her parents, increased the pleasure and impatience 
with which Frances looked forward to his arrival ; and 
after this confession, she must forfeit all claims to the dis- 
tinction of a heroine. 

The attachment between Frances and her parents 
seemed to have become more tender since she had been 
affianced to Colonel Forrester. It was as though she 
was desirous of proving to them that the new sentiment 
she experienced, a sentiment considered to supersede 
and engross all others, had not diminished her affection 
for them, while they felt all the bonds of love drawn still 
more closely, as they contemplated the possibility and 
probability of a separation from their child. 

They had always wished to make her' residence with 
7 ^ 


78 


them a condition of her marriage ; but delicacy, and a 
fear of being thought to dictate to a son-in-law whose 
inferior fortune rendered the marriage in some degree 
unequal, restrained them from expressing their wishes, 
and Frances having never for a moment contemplated 
the possibility of leaving her father and mother, the sub- 
ject was un-named, though it occupied all the thoughts 
of the doting parents, and filled their eyes with tears 
whenever they dwelt on their child, and thought of her 
being taken from them. 

This was the only alloy to their happiness, the only 
drop of bitterness in their cup. But so it is ever, even 
with the happiest — some care or fear will always arise 
to throw a cloud over what otherwise might be too bright 
for our imperfect natures. 

To a practical knowledge of the world, that is in no 
school more readily acquired than in the army. Colonel 
Forrester united an affectionate disposition, and deep ten- 
derness of nature, which that school too often tends to 
blunt. Left an orphan at an early age, the sole protector 
of a lovely young sister, he had assiduously supplied the 
place of the parents they had lost, until he had the hap- 
piness of bestowing her hand, where she had already 
given her heart, on a young nobleman of amiable dispo- 
sition, cultivated mind, and large fortune. His attach- 
ment to his sister had prepared his heart for the passion- 
ate one that now engrossed it, and fond anticipations of 
the friendship he hoped to cement between his future 
wife and that dear sister, were mingled in all his aspira- 
tions of the future. 

“ Frances is precisely the person formed to be chosen 
as the friend of my dear sister,” said Colonel Forrester 
often to himself; “ and Louisa is sure to be loved, as 
soon as she is known.” 

Every man who has a favourite sister, and is in love, 
has entertained a similar thought; but how few have 
realized the agreeable visions they have indulged ! Sis- 
ters-in-^^ are apt to view each other, not through the 
flattering optics of the husband and brother, but through 


79 


the microscopic ones of female rivalry ; and, being thrown 
more frequently into close contact with each other than 
with other female friends, defects are discovered that 
might have escaped detection in less near connexions. 
A sister has been accustomed to be the first person in a 
brother’s estimation, and even a good one will feel some- 
thing more of the woman than of the sister rising in her 
breast, when she is told by her brother, what brothers 
are too apt to tell, that her new relative is “the loveliest, 
wisest, virtuousest, best,” of all her sex, without the en- 
raptured panegyrist having the fraternal grace to make 
even one solitary exception for the hitherto idolized 
sister. 

Colonel Forrester, however, knew his sister well ; and 
therefore could without danger of disappointment, reckon 
on the affection which an acquaintance between her and 
his future wife could not fail to produce ; and in this con- 
viction, felt the strongest impatience to make them mu- 
tually known. 

In writing to acquaint Lady Oriel of his approaching 
marriage, he gave so graphic a portrait of his betrothed, 
that she learned to love, even without having seen, her 
future sister; and knowing the acute judgment of her 
brother, which not even love could have blinded, she 
felt persuaded that the picture was not too flattering. 

In his letters to Lady Oriel he poured forth his whole 
soul, as she had often done to him, when dwelling on 
her wedded happiness, and he wrote, 

“ To love thou blam’st me not, for love thou sayest 
Leads up to heaven, is both the way and guide.” 

Family affections are our consolations for the coldness 
and indifference of the world ; and the tie that unites a 
brother and sister, formed in infancy and strengthened in 
youth, becomes indissoluble in maturity. No friendship 
formed in after-age can have the same charm. This is 
identified with our happiest days, has grown wi !i our 


80 


growth and strengthened with our strength, until it has 
become a part of our very being. 

“ Like twining streams both from one fountain fell, 

And as they ran still mingled smiles and tears.” 

The difference of sex, in this relation, adds to the 
strength of the affection. As fathers love their daughters 
better than sons, and mothers love their sons better than 
daughters, so do sisters feel towards brothers a more con- 
stant sentiment of attachment than towards each other. 
None of the little vanities, heart-burnings, and jealousies, 
that, alas for poor human nature ! are but too apt to 
spring up in female hearts, can arise between brother and 
sister ; each is proud of the success of the other, because 
it cannot interfere with self — nay, on the contrary, is 
flattering to self. Hence, if there be a bond of family 
union more free from all the selfish blots that interrupt 
all others, it is that w^hich exists between an affectionate 
sister and brother. 

Colonel Forrester almost doubted the reality of the 
happiness prepared for him. It seemed too great, too 
perfect, to last. The letters of Frances breathed affec- 
tion pure and spotless as herself ; her dear father and 
mother were continually referred to in them as being as 
impatient as herself for his return, and sentiments of 
pious gratitude mingled in every expression of chastened, 
maidenly tenderness, that escaped from her pen. 

“ I shall love Springmount more than ever, now that 
1 know you, dearest, are to pass your life here with me,” 
wrote Frances Desmond. . “ My father and mother are 
planning a thousand improvements and embellishments, 
to be carried on under your inspection. You are upper- 
most in every project for the future, and occupy us all 
so continually, that our love for you seems a new bond 
of union between us, and we wonder how we were 
happy before we knew you. But no, we were not 
happy, we were only content, and a few weeks have 
proved to us how vast is the distance between happiness 


81 


# 


and content. How delightful it is to hear my father and 
mother always talking of you ! but you have no one to 
speak to you of your Frances.” 


CHAPTER XVII. 

“ Nous qui sorames bomees en tout, comment le sommes nous 
si peu quand il s’agit souffrir.” 

Grace Cassidy was sitting by the expiring embers of 
her fire on a Sunday night, filled with melancholy re- 
flections, called up by recollections of the past and dread 
of the future, excited by her weak-minded husband’s per- 
severance in following the dictates of the agitators, when 
Larry M‘Swigger entered her cottage. 

“ I’m just come to ax you if you can let me have a bed 
this blessed night, Mistress Cassidy?” said Larry. “In- 
deed and troth I wouldn’t be for throubling you, but that 
the Cat and Bagpipes, where I had engaged a bed, is no 
fit place for a quiet man,— such goings on ! such rhau- 
mish and disputing ! such knocking the tables with fists ! 
such flourishing of shillelahs, singing, crying, and 
cursing! — that I wouldn’t stay there, and stole away to 
come and ax you to let me have a place to lie down.” 

Grace consented to arrange a bed for Larry, because 
she felt that she could not, without an appearance of in- 
hospitality unknown amongst the Irish of her class, refuse 
him ; but the duties of hospitality were never so unwil- 
lingly performed by her as at this moment, as Larry 
would now be made a witness of her husband’s late 
hours, for which she could offer no excuse ; and with the 
sensitiveness of womanly love she shrank from having 
his errors exposed. 

“ Sure, these are quare times. Mistress Cassidy,” said 
Larry, “ to see the grand gentlemen of the country hardly 
so much as mentioned, and all the tag, rag, and bobtail, 
set up as laiders. Faith, it reminds me of a pot of broth, 


4 


82 

where all the scum floats up to the top ; and be my soul, 
Mistress Cassidy, like the broth, the scum must be taken 
off, before it’s fit for using. Well, there was Jack Dono- 
van came into the Cat and Bagpipes with his arm broke, 
and one of his legs dislocated, in a fight with one of the 
policemen, whom he left stretched for dead on the road ; 
and when he came into the tap-room and showed how 
kilt he was, didn’t your husband, Jim Cassidy, slap him 
on the back, and say he was gloriously maimed and illus- 
triously mutilated? upon which all of ’em began screech- 
ing and shouting out for Jim and for Jack Donovan. 
Faith, myself slipped off and came here, to be out of 
harm’s way: for if the police goes to take up Jack Dono- 
van, there’ll be bad work at the Cat and Bagpipes, for 
all the boys are determined to stand by him. 

“They had a newspaper there, and were reading all 
the speeches of the Irish mimbers. Faith, I couldn’t 
make head or tail of ’em, there w.as such hard words ; 
only one thing I minded, which was that when any of 
the Repalers made a. speech, the English mimbers. began 
to laugh, which was not mannerly ; though for the matter 
of that, maybe they couldn’t help it, for sure it’s hard 
not to laugh at a joke, and many’s the joke our mimbers 
will pass on ’em before they’ve done with ’em. 

“ Well, then, when they laughed, one of the Repalers 
up and tould ’em plain enough, — ‘ Gentlemen,’ says he, 

‘ ye may laugh, but the laugh will be echoed by many a 
weep and wail from Ireland.’ Faith, this reminded me 
of the echo, that when you cried out, ‘ How do you do ?’ 
answered, ‘ Very well thank you. Well, Mistress Cas- 
sidy, sure we ought to be thankful for such mild weather 
here anyway, when one sees in the newspapers that the 
mimbers couldn’t be heard for coughing in the parlia- 
ment. Faith, I never heard the English were so subject 
to coulds till lately.” 

Poor Grace had scarcely heard the observation of 
Larry M‘Svvigger, from the moment that he told her of 
her husband’s ill-judged compliments to Jack Donovan. 
At one instant she was tempted to go to the Cat and Bag- 


83 


pipes in search of him, but the next she felt ashamed to 
present herself before such an assemblage of riotous and 
intoxicated men ; she feared also that Jim might be of- 
fended at her going, and resent it before his companions. 

She repeatedly got up and went to the door, to see if 
her husband was approaching, but he did not appear ; and 
she stood leaning on the door-post, dreading to enter the 
kitchen again, where Larry would be sure to assail her 
with a never-ending history, to which the present state 
of her nerves rendered her little disposed to listen. 

It was a clear, moonlight night, and every object was 
silvered over by the bright luminary. The stillness that 
reigned around, contrasted fearfully with the disturbed 
feelings of Grace ; and she turned from a view that had 
often delighted her, because its very calm was at the pre- 
sent moment a mockery to the agitation and fear that 
filled her breast. 

How often had she stood with Jim on the same spot 
on such a night, both of them charmed with all that now 
lay spread before her, and wondering if the moon was 
equally brilliant in other places ! And well did she re- 
member Jim’s saying, “ Sure, if it is equally bright in 
other places, where could it find such a clear, beautif ’ 
looking-glass, to see its fair face in, as in our owr. ' 
river? or such fine mountains to pass^ 
woods to be shining on, as he^'" 
asthore, every fair 


0 


84 

and trees — everything is just the same as when I was so 
happy. Sure, I think I’d bear the change in him better, 
if all around me was changed too. But no ; that beauti- 
ful moon will shine just as brightly when I’m in my 
grave and all my throubles are over ; and everything will 
look just the same, though my eyes, that used to be so 
fond of looking on them, will see them no more. Well, 
I hope I may be buried by the side of Jim, in the sunny 
corner of the churchyard, for I’d like to have the sun 
shining on our graves, and the beautiful moon looking 
down on ’em, even though we couldn’t see ’em.” 

The thought of death calmed the feelings of Grace. 
She entered, and found Larry M‘Swigger asleep, with 
his head resting on the table. She retired to her room, 
and on her knees offered up her prayers to the throne of 
mercy, that her husband might be pardoned and protected, 
and that grace might be accorded her to turn him from 
the evil course he was pursuing. She arose from her 
supplications calm and reassured, and reclined in a chair 
to wait the return of her husband. 

There is a sublimity in prayer that elevates even the 
most ordinary minds ; for who ever lifted up his soul to 
■’"e Divinity, without feeling emotions to which language 
•fjnuate to give expression? The lips may breathe 
-'-^^^they only faintly.' convey what is felt; 

• ' aspirations more fervent than 
r^gnts that all which 


85 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

“ Through the shadowy past, 

Like a tomb-searcher, memory ran. 

Lifting each shroud that time had cast 
O’er buried hopes.” 

Grace dared not trust herself with a remonstrance to 
Jim, until sleep had calmed the feverish excitement under 
which he evidently laboured. Hitherto, no word of 
anger or bitterness had passed between them, because 
Grace had forborne to urge his impatient temper; and 
she dreaded to expose herself to some ebullition of anger, 
in which recrimination might break down the barriers of 
forbearance, that still supplied the place of love on the 
part of her husband. While he dropped into the heavy 
slumber that follows powerful excitement, she saw the 
morning sun break into the chamber. 

“ This,” thought she, “ used to be his usual hour of 
going to his work. How have I stood at the door to 
look after him, as his feet brushed the dew from the 
grass, and the birds were singing from every branch ! I 
thought how many hours must pass before he returned 
to me again, and I was sorrowful; but when he got to 
the last bend of the field, and turned round to see if I was 
looking at him, and waved his hat to me so cheerfully, 
my spirits came back, and I used to think of preparing 
for his return something nice for his supper. When I 
rubbed all the furniture, and made it shine so bright, and 
stuck fresh holly on the dresser, among the pewter plates 
that shone like silver, and looked round and saw every- 
thing so nate and tidy that a king might sit down in the 
kitchen; I used to be so proud and happy, thinking how 
he would enjoy it all when he came home— -and he used 
to enjoy it, and praise everything I did, and call me his 
own dear good Grace, but now — ” 

Her eyes fell on the contracted brow of the sleeper — ' 
VOL. I. 8 


8G 


his flushed cheek, and clenched teeth, bore evidence that, 
though the body reposed, the mind was still active ; and 
“ slaves and tyrants” were indistinctly murmured from 
his lips, as with a menacing gesture of the hand he mut- 
tered the words that had taken such a hold of his heated 
imagination. Bitter feelings arose in the breast of poor 
Grace, and she thanked God that she had still charity 
enough left, not to curse the wily agitators who had led 
her once excellent husband to this altered state, and 
blighted all her happiness. 

“ It’s no use thinking and fretting,” said Grace ; “ here 
is another day lost from his work ; sure, I must try and 
make up for it, by doing as much as I can.” 

And with this wise resolution, a resolution we would 
recommend to every wife in similar circumstances, she 
made her simple but neat toilette, cleaned her house, and 
performed all her domestic duties before Larry M‘Swig- 
ger had risen from the comfortable bed which she had 
assigned to him. 

“ Why then, faith. Mistress Cassidy, it’s yourself 
that’s the stirring active woman any way, to be up so 
early after being up so late, as a body might say. Sure, 
you’re just as nate and tidy as if you were in your bed 
from nine till six, instead of, as I suspect, not having 
slept at all; for I heard you sighing whenever I woke in 
the night, which I did mighty often, bekase the bed was 
so elegant that I, who haven’t been used to such a one 
for a long while, found that it disturbed me; besides 
which, I couldn’t sleep for dreaming. Faith, I dreamt 
enough to fill a book, and such quare things ! I hope 
they won’t come thrue, though I’m afeard they will, for 
I dreamt ’em chiefly towards the morning, and the morn- 
ing dreams mostly comes thrue, — worse luck for me this 
time if they do. I used to hate getting up early when I 
was young; faith, for the matther of that, I don’t much 
like it now; but I always remimbered that if I stayed 
sleeping in my bed in the morning, and had bad dreams, 
they’d come thrue; so that made me jump up; and I’m 
tould by those that know all about it, that the dreams of 


87 


the night never comes to pass, — I suppose it’s chiefly 
bekase people can’t remember ’em so well.” 

Grace, “ on hospitable thoughts intent,” spread a clean 
white cloth on the deal table, placed a large loaf of home- 
baked brown bread on it, with a plate of nicely-scooped 
crock-butter, and two piggins of skimmed milk; and in- 
vited Larry M‘Swigger with a hearty welcome to partake 
her humble repast: an invitation which he thankfully 
accepted, observing, “ that a good hand she was, to give 
a decent comfortable brekus, (Irish for breakfast,) with 
lashings of everything; and her mother, rest her soul! 
was the same before her.” 

They had only finished their repast, when Peggy 
Halloran, a neighbour, came in; and, big with news 
which she was most anxious to communicate, began, 
after the usual morning salutation of — “ God save ye this 
fine morning!” with “ Have ye heard the news?” 

Being answered in the negative, she continued — 
“ Well, then, it’s great news, surprising news, and ter- 
rible news for some, people I’m thinking;” stealing a 
look at the blanched cheek of Grace, who latterly had 
associated news, and trouble to Jim, together in her mind. 
“ Well, sure there was one of them police kilt last night 
by one of the boys, and sure enough he’s dead downright, 
and they’ve sint to the justices, and sint otf for the sol- 
diers, and every mother’s soul in Cologan that was out 
of their houses last night, will be taken up and hung for 
the murdher. Sure, what’s the matter with you. Mis- 
tress Cassidy? you look as pale as death; I hope none 
of your friends had a hand in this job. My honest man 
never stirred out of the house last night; — faith, I took 
care he shouldn’t, for I put a jar of potheen that I got 
from the mountains before him, and says I, “ There’s 
better whisky than ever you’ll get at the Cat and Bag- 
pipes, where they’d make you pay double the money 
for it; so smoke your pipe, and take your dhrop dacently 
at home.’ He was mighty unwilling at first to stay, but 
whin once he began to taste the dhrop, he hadn’t the 
heart to lave it, and niver quitted it till he fell off the 


88 


chair; and the childer and I pulled him to the bed, and 
he awoke as fresh as a daisy this morning, only a little 
bothered in the head ; and glad enough he is that he 
wasn’t at the Cat and Bagpipes, where he surely would 
have been, only' I had the dhrop at home for him.” 

Grace sat stupified, listening to this harangue, and 
Peggy Halloran continued — “ I hope you’ll excuse my 
freedom. Mistress Cassidy, but I think it’s a great pity 
you made Jim swear against the dhrop; sure, all the 
neighbours say, he never was the same man since. Had 
you let him alone, and always kept ajar of potheen in 
the house, he’d have stayed quietly with you, and been 
dhrunk in an hour, and then you’d have had a quiet 
night’s rest, and an aisy mind, instead of having him out 
all night with them boys. And sure the worst of it is, 
that now as he’s known not to take the dhrop, he’ll come 
off worse bekase people can’t say he stayed out all night 
for the dhrink, or that he was in liquor when he did this, 
that, or t’other, for the liquor is always an excuse for 
everything.” 

The comment on the interpretation that would be put 
on* Jim’s sobriety, struck Grace with terror. “What 
indeed,” she thought, “could be said for his staying out 
all night, when it was proved he did not drink? And I it 
was that kept him from drink, and have only saved him 
from the evils of intoxication, to see him fall into greater, 
more appalling danger !” 

To reason with Peggy Halloran on their different views 
of the duty of a wife, Grace felt would be as useless, as 
it would be fatiguing to her present exhausted frame and 
spirits. She knew that Peggy only spoke the sentiments 
of the generality of her female neighbours, who, looking 
on intoxication as a habit as necessary and natural to 
their husbands as their pipes and tobacco. Only calculated 
on the means of procuring them this indulgence at the 
least possible expense. What a state of morals ! and 
these dissolute beings are the supporters of the Repealers ! 

Larry M’Swigger marked the paleness of Grace’s 
cheek; he knew the sleepless night she had passed, and 


89 


he felt irritated against Peggy Halloran for the unfeeling 
personality of her remarks. “Sure, Mistress Halloran, 
if Jim Cassidy has been out,” said Larry, “ wasn’t it to 
give good advice, and, being the only sober man amongst 
them dhrunken boys, to keep ’em out of harm’s way? 
He had no more to say to killing the policeman than I 
had, of which I can make my Bible oath any way, and 
prove a yellow boy (an alibi) for him, so never be unaisy. 
Mistress Cassidy my jewel, for you’ll see there’ll be no 
danger in life.” 

He gave a triumphant look at Peggy Halloran, who 
felt its force, for she replied that, “Sure, she’d be sorry 
enough that Jim Cassidy got into throuble, though she 
must say he never was the same man since he left off 
the dhrink.” 

Several other of her neighbours having come in, an- 
nounced to Grace, that the police were in search of Jack 
Donovan, who had fled, and that the man he wounded 
in the scuffle, the night before, was dead. They added 
the consolatory intelligence, that as Jack Donovan had 
confessed the crime in the presence of so many witnesses 
at the Cat and Bagpipes, no one else could be suspected ^ 
of it; but that most probably, all the persons present at 
his acknowledgment of the murder, would be summoned 
to give evidence of his words. 

This was a great relief to Grace’s fears, though she 
still looked forward with dread to the effect a summons 
might produce on the excited feelings of Jim, whose im- 
prudence made her apprehensive that, on his examina- 
tion, he might compromise his own safety, by giving 
utterance to the seditious language he had lately adopted 
from the Repealers. 

^he awoke him, and communicated the death of the 
policeman, and its possible results, expecting that some 
sentiment of pity or regret might escape his lips, which 
would have given her an opportunity of impressing on 
his mind the fatal consequences likely to ensue from the 
conflicts between the peasantry and police, which his 
inflated language was calculated to encourage; and, as 
8 ^ 


90 


hitherto Jim had been as remarkable for humanity as for 
high courage, two qualities that ought to be inseparable, 
she fully expected that he would feel shocked at the 
murder of the unfortunate man, who, 

“ Unhousel’d, disappointed, unaneal’d, 

No reckoning made, was sent to his account 
With all his imperfections on his head 

but no, Jim’s first expression was, “So perish all our 
enemies! Jack Donovan has set a grand example by 
killing the first.” 

“Oh! hold your tongue, Jim, for mercy’s sake!” said ’ 
Grace, “for my sake! Do you want to be taken up? to 
be dragged to a prison? — Jim, Jim, you’ll break my 
heart.” 

“ Grace, you are not fit to be the wife of a Pathriot, 
or a Repaler,” said Jim. “Sure what’s a few lives, in 
comparison with getting our Parliament back? which 
we’ll be sure to do, if we do all the mischief we can.” 

To reason with him at this moment, Grace felt, would 
be useless. She therefore merely urged him to put on 
his clothes, and go to his work as usual, as his absence 
from his ordinary occupation might create suspicions to 
his disadvantage. She had some difficulty in persuading 
the weak and wilful man even to this prudent measure, 
and he only yielded to her tears. 

When he was gone, Grace determined on proceeding 
to Springmount, to entreat the protection of the dear, 
good master, in case any misfortune should happen to 
Jim. She found admittance to the beloved mistress and 
Miss Desmond, and told them the extent of her fears. 
They entered into her situation with kind interest, and 
promised to say all that could be said to Mr. Desmond, 
to palliate the infatuation of Jim. 

“ Och ! dear ladies,” said Grace, “ my poor unfortu- 
nate husband is bewitched ; he sees nothing as it really 
is, and is no longer in his right mind. Beg of the mas- 
ther to have pity on him, and not to let his own foolish 
words ruin him, for he is so lost to common sense, that 


91 


he has no enemy who would say as ill of him as he says 
of himself since this terrible delusion has come over him.” 

Mrs. Desmond and the amiable Frances sincerely 
pitied Grace, and dismissed her with promises of conti- 
nued protection to her misguided husband, in spite of his 
folly and infatuation. 

On returning to her home, Grace met various bodies 
of the police on the road, and shrank from encountering 
them, as if she felt they must be her enemies from the 
opposition her husband was disposed to show them. 

“ A short time ago,” thought she, “ and the sight of 
these men would have given me confidence, instead of 
fear. I should have looked on them as the protectors of 
my husband and self; and so they would have been, 
had he continued to deserve it. But now he is their 
enemy, and they must be his, and oh ! wo is me, where 
will all this end ?” 


CHAPTER XIX. 

“ Oh ! who art thou who dar’st of love complain ? 

He is a gentle spirit and injures none! 

His foes are ours ; from them the bitter pain, 

The keen, deep anguish, the heart-rending groan. 

Which in his milder reign are never known. 

His tears are softer than the April showers ; 

White-handed innocence supports his throne ; 

His sighs are sweet as breath of earliest flowers. 

Affection guides his steps, and peace protects his bowers 

The letter from the War Office, accepting Colonel 
Forrester’s resignation, had no sooner arrived at Water- 
ford, than he set out for Springmount, where his pre- 
sence was hailed with joy. Mr. Desmond had only 
returned from Dublin a few days before ; and the com- 
munications which the two friends had to make to each 
other on the state of the country, led both to the conclu- 
sion, that though it would be much more agreeable to 
leave Ireland, and fix their residence in England, yet, as 


92 


their presence and influence in the country might have 
some weight in subduing the spirit of insubordination 
which was so prevalent, they ought to sacrifice pleasure 
to duty, and they agreed that they would remain at 
Springmount for the present. 

Mr. Desmond told Forrester that now his military ties 
were sundered, the sooner he submitted to his conjugal 
ones the better, and that he had given his lawyer instruc- 
tions to put all en regie . — “ I have but my child and her 
happiness to consider,” said the affectionate father : “all 
that I possess is to be hers some future day ; but, en 
attendant^ it is necessary for the happiness of us all, that 
you and Frances should feel yourselves perfectly inde- 
pendent. Therefore half my fortune shall forthwith be- 
come yours, and you will not, I am sure, be impatient 
for the possession of the other half.” 

Colonel Forrester felt that this was the moment to 
open his mind to his future father-in-law ; and he told 
him that, knowing the love Frances felt for her parents, he 
hoped they could not suspect him of wishing to deprive 
either them or their child of the happiness of passing 
their lives together. 

“ You have overlooked,” continued he, “ the dispa- 
rity of fortune between your daughter and myself. Can 
I do less than declare to you that 1 will never separate 
her from you ? All future arrangements I leave entirely 
in your hands. Where you wish to live, there also will 
I live. In short, I trust, that if you have not obtained a 
wealthy son-in-law, you have at least found a grateful 
and attached one, who, having lost his own parents, will 
most gladly transfer the affection and duty he owed 
them, to you and Mrs. Desmond.” 

This frank and affectionate avowal removed the only 
chagrin the excellent couple had felt at the thoughts of 
the marriage of their daughter ; and all within the walls 
of Springmount was gaiety and happiness. 

“ How I long to make you acquainted with my dear 
sister !” said Colonel Forrester to Frances. “ You are 
formed for each other. Lady Oriel is so unsophistU 


93 


cated, so loving, and so loveable, that it is impossible to 
know her without being attached to her; and yet, though 
you are her junior, you are morejoose, more wise, than 
she is; for she has a morbid susceptibility, or sensibility, 
call it which you will, which has been fostered by a simi- 
lar tendency in the feelings of her otherwise faultless 
husband, that has sometimes alarmed me for her happi- 
ness.” 

“ Surely,” said Frances, “ this similarity in their 
feelings must be conducive to their happiness, as it must 
produce a better understanding, and preclude the possi- 
bility of disagreement.” 

“ I am not prepared to admit this reasoning,” replied 
Colonel Forrester. “ Though I maintain that a simi- 
larity of tastes is highly conducive to happiness, a too 
great assimilation of feelings is apt to mar it. Lord Oriel 
is too sensitive to speak his wishes, and thinks his wife 
ought to have an intuitive knowledge of them. Her ex- 
treme susceptibility enables her at a glance to perceive 
when anything has gone wrong, though she cannot always 
divine precisely its nature. Each is afraid of wounding 
the other ; hence, one half their lives passes in refined 
and delicate misunderstandings, and the other half in 
concealments, or eclair cissements of them. Less mor- 
bid feelings would avoid the first, and not be compelled 
to the other two. I see, dearest, that you smile, because, 
luckily you have never been exposed to a contact with 
persons like Lord Oriel, who have a thousand virtues 
and only one fault. You have lived with those who 
have all the former without the latter, and I must take 
care that through me you extend not your knowledge on 
this point, and not let so much happiness render me too 
fastidious. You, dear Frances ! must keep me in order, 
otherwise I shall be spoiled.” 

The smile of affection with whieh the lovely girl ex- 
tended her hand to her lover, gave little assurance of her 
compliance with his request of keeping him in order ; 
and her gentleness afforded evidence that he would be 


94 


compelled to hold the reins of domestic government, as 
she was formed to obey more than to dictate. 

Everything being now in progress for the marriage of 
Colonel Forrester and Miss Desmond, it became the 
general topic of conversation in the neighbourhood. The 
observations it excited, showed how strongly party feel- 
ings and prejudices influenced the opinions of all classes 
on the subject. The gentry expressed their surprise that 
Mr. Desmond should be compelled to give his heiress to 
a stranger, — an Englishman, — and of comparatively small 
fortune, when he might have chosen a more suitable hus- 
band for her in his own country. They dwelt on the an- 
noyance of seeing so fine an estate pass into the hands 
of an utter stranger, and each had some hypercritical ob- 
servation to make on the Colonel’s reserved air, distant 
manner, and too dignified demeanour. In short, they 
were determined to find fault, and when this determina- 
tion exists, it is not difficult to furnish it with food. 

Among the lower classes, the intended alliance excited 
still stronger disapprobation ; and as in no country do the 
lower orders claim or usurp to themselves a greater right 
of questioning the conduct and motives of their superi- 
ors, so in no country are they less capable of understand- 
ing either. The tap-room of the Cat and Bagpipes 
became the arena where these wordy plebeian gladiators 
were to attack the right of their excellent landlord to grant 
the hand of his daughter to him whom he considered the 
most worthy to possess it. 

“ Here’s a purty business,” said Will Gavin, the 
smith; “the ould fool of a masther giving his daughter, 
and, what’s worse, the green acres, to the Sassenach ! 
Sure, ’tis enough to provoke a saint if there was any 
saints ; but they left the counthry when Castlereagh, bad 
luck to him ! carried away the Union.” 

“ Arrah, whisht! hould your tongue, Will,” said Tom 
Flaherty, the cow-doctor; “ don’t be tanking of masthers. 
We’ve had enough of them any way; and sure, as the 
Repalers tell us, we’re not to own to any masther any 
more but O’Blarney; he that’s the pattern of boys, and 


fears nothing, except our letting the ould counthry go to 
sleep ; ‘ for,’ says he, ‘ if onct you let the kingdom be 
rocked to sleep in the cradle of quietness, and hushed 
with a lullaby of sweet promises, there’ll be an end of 
ye. England never remimbers ye’re alive unless whin 
ye’re mad. Show her ye’re alive and kicking too,’ says 
he, ‘ and ye’ll frighten her.’ ” 

“ Ay,” says Will Gavin, “ strike the iron while it’s 
hot, and it will send out sparks to burn ’em ; but, as I 
was saying, could’nt an Irishman be found in all the 
counthry for Miss Desmond, that she must be married 
to one of them English?” 

“ Yes,” said another, “ and an officer too ; a dragoon 
ready to ride rough-shod over us at the word of com- 
mand. Faith, it’s too bad. I wonder what would the 
Repalers say to it; for if they tell us to pay no tithes, 
what would they tell us about paying rint to a foreigner, 
who has no natural right to the soil, and who’ll spend 
every guinea of it in England.” 

“ Why, faith,” said Will Gavin, with a knowing 
smile, “ if we know well what we’re about, and mind 
our hits, I don’t see why, when we’re bringing back our 
Parliament to the ould counthry, we should’nt bring Eng- 
land, or the best of what’s in it, at all events, over to 
keep it company. Sure it would be only fair play, for 
they’ve had the best part of Ireland. Yet no, I won’t 
say the best; I’ll only say the richest part. For many 
a long day they’ve had the potatoes, and left us the skins ; 
the cream, and left us the skimmed milk. But when our 
thrue friend said the other day in the Parliament, that 
there was a hundred thousand Irish in London, which 
he surely tould ’em to frighten ’em out of their seven 
senses, this was a plain hint that not only could they 
bring back the Parliament, but the rich English too. 
Och ! let him alone ; he’s the boy for bothering ’em ; 
and when they think they have him quiet, with some 
bone they’ve thrown him to pick, faith it’s himself that 
turns round on ’em when they laist expect it, and makes 
a speech clear and clane in their teeth. Talk of the baist 


96 


in the ould story-book, that when you cut off one head, 
another sprung up in its place, sure it’s a joke to O’Blar- 
ney ; he has a fresh mouth to screech at ’em every time 
they stop the ould one, and finds a way to slip through 
every noose they make 'to catch him. Sure, them En- 
glish are the biggest fools under the sun, fo:* they’d be- 
lieve anything; and whin they make an engagement, 
faith, they’re for keeping it bad or good; but we know 
a thrick worth two of that, and that’s what our Repalers 
will show ’em before they’re done with ’em, or my 
name is not Will Gavin.” 

“ That’s neither here or there,” replied Tom Flaherty ; 
“ the point is how are we to hinder this Sassenacli from 
carrying off Springmount ?” 

“ Faith, it’s aisy enough,” answered half-a-dozen at a 
time : “ knock the breath out of his body ; put out it’s 
light, and that’s the shortest way of settling it.” 

“ Yes, but when would we be afther doing it ?” asked 
one who had been a silent auditor. “ Look what a hul- 
labaloo they’re making for just only killing a policeman. 
What would they do if we kilt a gentleman and a Cur- 
nel into the bargain ? Sure, they’d have all them dra- 
goons at our heels, killing one-half of us, and frightening 
the other half our of their lives. It’s betther let the Cur- 
nel alone any way ; and sure I know a safer plan to keep 
him from taking away Springmount. Let us burn it.” 

“Well said, my boy,” screamed half-a-dozen voices 
at a time. “ Right for you. Sure, if it’s burnt, he can 
only take away the ashes, and we won’t begrudge him 
that.” 

The party was interrupted by the host of the Cat and 
Bagpipes, who declared that “ though sorely against his 
will, he must send ’em quite entirely out of the house, 
as the police would be coming round to look after them.” 

This produced some animated reflections and lamenta- 
tions on the tyranny of forcing them to go home to their 
beds when only three parts intoxicated, and they agreed 
that it was a state of things not to be borne with. 

Let not the English reader imagine that this picture of 


the lower order of the Irish is overcharged ; and yet let 
him not conclude that no goodness is to be found beneath 
the mass of brutality, sharpness, and cunning, that enve- 
lopes them. Their virtues are the genuine production 
of their natures, stunted and perverted in their youth, and 
seldom called into action. But their vices are the off- 
spring of circumstances, originating in misrule. They 
have become demoralized by real or imaginary aggrava- 
tion, and are hurried against their supposed oppressors 
either to betray or to avenge. In the Irish character all 
the elements of good are to be found in abundance, but 
these are turned into instruments of destruction by the 
demagogues who know how to apply the spark to in- 
flammable and evil passions. What the Irish peasantry 
now are, the newspapers teeming with the fearful cata- 
logue of their crimes but too well tell us. What they 
may become, will depend on freeing them from the per- 
nicious influence of the moral incubus that now paralyses 
all their better feelings, and leaves them, like the infuri- 
ated bullocks driven on by the rebels in their battles in 
the rebellion, — that memorable rebellion, which ought to 
be at once the warning and fearful example of the ruin- 
ous effects of not checking in time the first symptoms 
of disaffection, and saving this generous but misguided 
people from the terrible consequences of their own ex- 
cesses. 


CHAPTER XX. 

** Some demagogues, like Cataline, can raise a storm, who 
cannot, like Cromwell, rule it ; thus, the Gracchi wishing to 
make the Agrarian law the ladder of their ascent, found it the 
instrument of their fall; ‘fracta compage ruebant.*” 

The murder of the policeman seemed the signal for 
violence on all sides. The peasantry knew the vengeance 
it would call down on their heads, and the police felt 

VOL. I. 9 


98 


there was no longer safety for them but in their numbers. 
The rubicon was passed, and blood had marked its pas- 
sage ; hence the two passions of fear and revenge but 
added to the bad feelings of both parlies, and rendered 
them reckless of consequences. When parties of the 
police encountered the peasantry on the roads, angry 
glances, threatening gestures, and mocking taunts were 
exchanged, and it was easy to foresee that the suppressed 
hatred on both sides would, like pent-in fires, soon burst 
forth, and make fearful havoc. 

The anxiety and terror of Grace Cassidy having pro- 
duced visible effects on her health, her husband was in- 
duced, by the feelings of love that still lingered in his 
heart for her, (but which had been quelled the angry 
passions that had lately tyrannized over that once calm 
and happy heart,) to stay in his cottage at night, and to 
attend to his work by day. This prudence was a sacri- 
- fice offered up to affection, and he had not delicacy 
enough to conceal that it was a sacrifice. Jim, in this 
respect, resembled but too clearly his sex in general; 
even the most refined and polished of them seldom con- 
ceal any of the sacrifices they make, or what it costs to 
make them. This is reserved for women, and is one of 
the many proofs they give of their superiority in all mat- 
ters of affection and delicacy. 

Larry M‘Swigger had continued at Cologan, to be 
ready in case his testimony might be necessary in any 
examination as to the confession of Jack Donovan ; and 
Grace had invited him to sojourn at the cottage, thinking 
that his chat of an evening might amuse Jim, and console 
him for his absence from the Cat and Bagpipes. 

Larry had been a traveller in his youth, had seen 
much, and had grafted on a naturally shrewd understand- 
ing various shreds and patches of knowledge, acquired 
both from what he had seen and heard, that, joined to 
his extreme ignorance, rendered his conversation very 
amusing to the unfastidious tastes of his auditors. 

Grace, her husband, and their guest, were enjoying 
their simple supper, when Jim burst forth with, “ Well, 


99 


Larry, what do you say now to what they’re doing in 
England, going to send over soldiers to kill us all clear 
and clane? Sure the King himself has threatened us, 
from his very sait of justice in the Parliament of Lords, 
and bawled out, they say, as loud as if he wished the 
echo of his voice would reach us over here ; but little 
we’d mind it if it did. We’re used to echoes, and know 
they’re made by emptiness; but didn’t our friend in the 
Common Parliament soon tell ’em his mind about it, and 
say it was a bloody speech?” 

“ Sure he was right,” said Larry. “We call the linen 
that stops a cut or a wound, a bloody linen, and to my 
thinking, the King’s speech will stop many a wound 
being given, therefore our friend was right to call it 
bloody. But you see them English couldn’t understand 
the sense of it; but I, who know the roundabout way 
our ministers takes to say things, and liow they say one 
thing when they mane another, Pm never at a loss to 
guess what they’re afther.” 

“ It wouldn’t be mannerly for me to be contradicting 
you, by the side of my own hearth,” said Jim, “and 
you ould enough to be my father; but I don’t think that 
was what O’Blamey mint.” 

“ Never mind, Jim dear,” interposed Grace, “what 
he meant. Whatever it was, the word was an ugly word, 
and a bad word to be tacked to a King’s discourse, he 
who is the father of us all.” 

“ He may be the father of the English,” said Jim, 
“ but, faith, if he’s a father to us, sure it’s a step-father, 
for we seldom hear of him, except when he threatens us, 
and his name seldom comes to us except with a Whereas 
before it. Sure, the Repalers told ’em that they were 
wanting to treat us worse than the Algerines, which 
manes, to make black slaves of us.” 

“ Och, that reminds me,” said Larry, “ of the terrible 
sight I saw on my travels, when I crost the salt-sea ocean. 
I never tould it to you, Mistress Cassidy, nor to you 
neither, Jim, and faith it will do your heart good to hear 
it, because it will show you that I had as great a hatred 


to be made a black slave as any of you, when I was 
young. Well then, once upon a time, as the ould story- 
tellers say, when I was tired of working in Ireland, and 
to tell you the thruth, though more is the shame for me, 
tired of the poor creathure of a wife too, I determined to 
go off to one of the West India islands to make my for- 
tune, with two or three other boys that was going. I 
got together every halfpenny I could rap or rend, and 
engaged to work my passage out, which I did, and hard 
work it was too', as I found to my cost. 

“ Well, the sights I saw on the sea I’ll never forget, 
any way; porpusses, and grampusses, and saels, and 
other outlandish animals, half fish and half baist; but one 
thing, just to show you the difference between sea and 
land — I saw in the West Indies, what we calls a turtle 
here, and which is an ilegant dove ; but there, is a great 
ugly baist that lives in the sea, and that they catches to 
make soup of: this shows you what terrible changes the 
climates, as they called it, can bring about. But that’s 
nothing to what I’m going to tell you. 

Well, if you knew all I suffered at sea, you’d pity 
me; and what was worse than all, I found I had a natural 
fear of it. Sure, when it used to get angry, and the big 
green waves used to mount up as if they were going to 
swallow us, with a great white froth on the tops of ’em, 
which they often threw in our faces, I couldn’t help 
thinking they were spirits, they had such an awful, 
threatening look with ’em, and I had a dread of ’em, I 
never felt before for anything. Sure, IVe looked when 
the ship seemed to be going down between two green 
mountains of water, and thought to myself who’ll ever 
tell the secrets that’s buried in your heart? What a 
wonderful sight ’twould be to see the treasures that’s hid 
below them great waves, and the poor remains of them, 
that has been longed afther and cried afiher, through 
many a long night by these that loved ’em ; and to think 
their poor bones can never lie in holy ground, in a dacent 
grave, in some clane purty church-yard among their own 
people, where their friends might say in passing by. 


101 


‘There lies poor Jim, or Jack!’ which sure would be 
some comfort; but them poor crathures that was swal- 
lowed up by the big cruel waves, and has ships upon 
ships passing over ’em, with perhaps, their own coun- 
thrymen in ’em, that can’t so much as see one of their 
bones, och! troth, it’s a sorrowful thing to think of! 
When I’ve been on duty at night, and have seen the 
great waves coming from a distance with their white 
manes moving and shining by the moon-light, sure I’ve 
thought they were the throops of death sent afther us ; 
and when they’ve come quite close, I could not for the 
life of me help going away from the sight of ’em, and 
hiding myself, though all the crew laughed at me. 

“ But such sights as that, is no laughing matter ! one 
feels so helpless, there is no accounting for the danger ^ 
and no avoiding it. Och ! sure, if there’s a place in the 
world to make a poor crathure feel his own insignificance, 
it’s a-board ship in a storm ; it’s then the thought of the 
mighty, the terrible power of God, enters into the heart 
of man, and he feels he is nothing without the mercy of 
his Creator. Then to see the sea, when she is in a good 
humour, the sun playing hide-and-seek with her ; one 
minute throwing all his golden beams over her smooth, 
looking-glass bosom, and the next, hiding himself behind 
some fine purple cloud ; och ! it’s a glorious sight. Then 
again, to look at the way the sea pays court to the moon, 
keeping so quiet, and so steady, just to reflect all its sil- 
very brightness, and not only her round face, but hun- 
dreds of pillars of silver all spread out beneath her, just 
like an illumination to do her honour. Faith, I’ve 
thought to myself, '* Och, it’s you sea, that can put on 
a fine pleasant look when you like it, just to flatter the 
sun and moon ; but you’re a deceaver, and I don’t trust 
in you, for if only a blast of wind affronts you, ’tis you 
that can show the bad heart, and the black foce, and rise 
up in fearful anger to revenge yourself.’ 

“ I took good care not to say a word of this out loud, 
for fear she’d take vengeance on me ; but it was passing 
in my mind all the time she was sending back their own 
9 =^ 


102 


shining smiles to the sun and moon, as if she was 
always in a good humour, when I knew how bad she 
could behave when neither of ’em was to the fore. 

“ Another terrible thing, too, that I suffered, was the 
draims I had a-board ship. No sooner did I shut my 
eyes, but I began draiming that I was on land, living 
under beautiful green trees, on grass softer than velvet, 
and birds singing all around. I smelt the very perfume 
of the flowers, and kept thanking God I was done with 
that spitfire of a rogue of a sea ; when the ship lurched 
and I awoke to find myself, sure enough, in that terrible 
prison, with the frightful waves coming all around, with 
looks just as if they would say, ‘ Here we are, and we’re 
not done with you yet.’ Och ! the bitterness of such 
awakings. Sure, even now they often come back to my 
mind, and whatever my throubles may be, I always thank 
God I’m not in the power of the deceitful sea. 

“ Well, sure I’ve bothered ye any way with this shan- 
ohos* about the ocean, but now I’m coming to the end 
of my story. We arrived at a place, — faith, I forget the 
name of it, — and a boat comes off to us filled with black 
nagirs, with hardly a rag on their black, shining bodies. 
When I saw them, faith a joke came into my head, and 
I cried out in Irish to ’em, ‘ How are ye, my white beau- 
ties V They up and tould me in as good Irish as ever 
was spoken, ‘ Sure we’re purty well ; how is youself ?’ 
This bothered me ; so I made free to ax ’em how long 
they were there, and they tould me in Irish ‘ two years.’ 
‘ Two years,’ says I, ‘ and black and woolly already ? 
The devil a step I’ll ever put on this island while I live, 
for, if I came out here to make my fortune, I did not 
come out to turn a rael nagir as my poor countrymen 
have turned.’ So I stuck to the ship, and wouldn’t go 
on land for all the world. 

“ Six weeks the ship stopped there, but never did I 
go out of her ; I knew better ; though, would you be- 
lieve it ? they wanted to persuade me that the cratliures 


* Irish for a long story. 


103 


that spoke Irish to me were rael blacks that had been 
taught Irish by the Irish settlers ; but I was not so fool- 
ish as to believe it, for we Irish are too ’cute. An Eng- 
lishman would have swallowed such a story, but I knew 
betther ; so back I came to Cork, facing all the dangers 
of the deep, frightened as I was ; but anything was bet- 
ther than coming home a black with woolly hair. 

“ So you see. Mistress Cassidy, and you too, Jim, I 
suffered enough rather than submit to be made a slave. 
Faith, there’s feM^ has gone through so much for it.” 

“ I don’t think,” said Jim, “ that it was the slavery 
you minded so much as the turning black and woolly.” 

“ Och ! troth,” said Larry, “ ’twas both ; but I don’t 
believe, Jim, that you yourself would like to see those 
brown curly locks of yours that’s buckling round your 
head, turned to black wool, nor your dacent red and 
white face turned to an oily black. I was young then, 
and a clane comely boy into the bargain ; but ould as I 
am now, with my withered-up face, that looks like a 
shrivelled apple, my poor eyes like burnt holes in a 
blanket, or bottled gooseberries in a burnt-up pie, and 
my few locks of hair like flakes of snow hanging on an 
ould blasted tree, I wouldn’t wish to see myself turned 
into a nagir any way, bad as I am. If I had stayed to 
be a blacli* I might have come home with plinty of mo- 
ney, instead of being poor as I am now, on the shock- 
arane,^ here to-day and gone to-morrow. But sure it’s 
no use to fret ; a pound of sorrow they say never paid 
an ounce of debt, not that I have any debts, God be 
thanked ! for, faith, no one seemed ever much inclined 
to trust me.” 

“ Did you hear what your friend said in the Parlia- 
ment in London about slavery, and the iron entering our 
souls ?” interrogated Jim, resuming the train of thought 
that Larry’s narrative had interrupted. 

“ I did sure enough,” said Larry ; “ but I thought it 
quite rhaumeish. If he said the iron entered our bodies 


Wandering. 


104 


pretty often, there would be some sense in it, for sure 
the police and the soldiers are great hands at seeing what 
we’re made of with the points of their bayonets ; but as 
for our souls, no one but God can touch them, which is 
some comfort; and this I know, bekase when Bill Tobin 
swore before the justice that Dan Tooley bait him, and 
threatened to send his soul to hell in five minutes, (and 
Bill swore, too, that he believed Dan would have done 
so, had he not been prevented by the bystanders,) the 
justice stopped him, and explained, that though any man 
might bait, or even kill him, no man could have power 
over his soul, as that was in the hands of God. There- 
fore, it’s nonsense for the Repalers to be talking of the 
iron entering the soul, and sinful too, according to my 
notions.” 

“You may say what you like, Larry,” replied Jim, 
“but if it wasn’t for the Repalers we’d never know any- 
thing of all our throubles.” 

“That’s what I blame ’em for,” said Larry; “they’re 
always swelling our throubles, making mole-hills into 
mountains, as the saying is; and sure what good does 
this do us, except to make us more vexed ? If they showed 
us a way to get out of ’em. I’d say something; but to be 
always ripping up ould sores, and never giving a plaster, 
sure, it’s not the part of thrue friends. ’Twould be kinder 
to tell us to have patience, and give us good advice.” 

“Would you have us continue in ignorance all our 
born days,” said Jim, .“ as we used to b^e before the Re- 
palers let us into the rael state of things ? Sure, we used 
to believe that the Duke of Wellington was the greatest 
man, the finest soldier, and the bravest general that ever 
commanded, till our mimbers tould us as he wasn’t, and 
laughed at the notion of it; and one by one they pull 
down all the great men that we used to be so proud of, 
that we’d have gone to the mouth of a cannon for ’em.” 

“Well, then,” said Larry, “are we happier or more 
contented, Jim, now that they have pulled down all that 
we used to be so proud of, and left us nothing at all to 
keep up the conceit in us? Many’s the time, when I’ve 


105 


been could and hungry, the thoughts that I belonged to 
the same counthry as the great Duke, has warmed my 
heart, and when I considered that he had sent his name 
as an honour to Ireland to the four quarters of the world, 
ay, faith, and farther too, to be talked of. I’ve felt that I 
could lose as many lives as a cat, ay, or even as Plutarch 
himself, if I had ’em, to do him a service. Sure, what’s 
the pleasure in life, if one hasn’t something to be proud 
of? and what is so natural as to be proud of such a man ? 
Them that would say he isn’t the greatest general that 
ever lived, must have hearts too small to hold anything 
but their envy, and I’d deny ’em for countrymen for ever 
and ever. We are such droll people, that if those that 
are an honour and a credit to us, ain’t always praising 
themselves, we forget ’em. We mind words more than 
deeds, and this great man I’m talking of, never praises 
himself. He laves that to others to do, for, as his brother 
truly said of him, ‘ He’s fonder of conquering the enemy 
than of telling how he did it.’ Now our mimbers pass 
most of their time in paying compliments to themselves, 
and never can be said to want a trumpeter while their 
own tongues can wag. Then see how the Great Captain, 
(but, no, I won’t call him a captain, for sure he’s a gen- 
eral, and the head of all generals, and I don’t like to take 
away any of his grandeur,) see how he spaiks ; never . 
with big blustering words, but with a quiet and steady 
dacency, that shows he’s in earnest. He’s always think- 
ing of the good of the counthry, and never thrying to 
make bad worse. Let who will be in power, it’s all the 
same to him : as long as they do what’s right, he never 
axes what party they belong to. Och ! Jim, what un- 
grateful baists we must be to let any one talk against such 
a man, who has spent his life in fighting for us, and now 
gives up his ease, to think how we can be best served. 
Think, Jim, of the hundreds of nights he has passed 
without sleep; the fatigues, the dangers, the risks, he 
has endured ; the thousands of lives that depended on 
his orders, and the years of anxiety he must have had, 
to bring off without a single spot, a reputation as difficult 


106 


to be kept bright as it was hard to be gained. Sure, if 
poor ould Ireland no longer had a sun to shine over her, 
his fame would throw a light on her. And this is the 
man the Repalers would thry to persuade us we ought 
not to be proud of!” 

The enthusiasm of Larry excited the latent feelings 
of habitual admiration that had so long dwelt in the heart 
of Jim. 

“Faith, Larry, I believe you’re right,” said he; “ for 
when "you remind me of what the Duke has done,'! can’t 
help feeliiig as proud of him as ever, and I begin to think 
that those that want to pull him down, are set on by their 
jealousy and envy.” 


CHAPTER XXL 

“ Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise, 

(That last infirmity of noble minds) 

To scorn delight, and live laborious days ; • 

But the fair guerdon when we hope to find. 

And think to burst out into sudden blaze. 

Comes the blind fury with th’ abhorred shears, 

And slits the thin-spun life.” 

“ With fame, in just proportion, envy grows ; 

The man that makes a character, makes foes.” 

“ I WAS looking about me, the whole of this blessed 
day,” said Larry M’Swigger to Grace and Jim Cassidy, 
as they sat at their simple supper, “ and I thought to 
myself, ‘ What a pity it is that a counthry which God 
has done so much for, man should do so much against. 
To see the beautiful mountains, looking so proud and 
grand, the trees so green and stately, the rivers so clear 
and rapid, and the skies more blue and laughing than any- 
where else ’ ” 

“How can you say that?” said Jim, whose present 
discontented state of mind led him to cavil with many of 
Larry’s observations, “since isn’t there twice more rain 


107 


in Ireland than in England? and yet you’re for saying, 
the sky is laughing.” 

“Faith, Jim, the poor sky is a real Irish sky, and like 
ourselves, is always either laughing or crying. It never, 
to my thinking, looks more beautiful than when after a 
heavy shower it brightens up and smiles on all around. 

It’s for all the world like Mistress Cassidy, begging her 
pardon for talking of her when she is to the fore, for I’ve 
thought of the sky when I’ve seen the tears resting on 
her long black eyelashes, just as the drops of rain hang 
on the leaves, and a bright glance shine out of them same 
blue eyes, which looked all the brighter for the tears, as 
the sky does after the shower. But that’s neither here 
nor there to what I was saying, which was, that God, 
praise be to His holy name ! has done everything for 
Ireland, and man nothing except mischief. Is, Jhere a 
more fruitful soil in the world? I’ve heard people call 
the earth our mother, but faith, I say it’s father, mother, 
sister, and brother; ay, be my soul, and wife also ; for it 
takes us to her breast when the whole world turns from 
us, and the sooner Fm sleeping there the betther,” con- 
tinued the poor old man, wiping a tear from -his cheek, 

“for I love the poor counthry and many that’s in it too 
well not to be sick at heart at all I see. Everything that 
God gives us is turned to bad account. We have had the 
bravest generals, and we’re now ungrateful to ’em, though 
they have brought honour and glory on the counthry. 

Our eloquence grows wild, for want of pruning; our mad 
thoughts governs us, instead of our governing them; our 
courage is shown in acts of brutality; and all that might 
make us a grand people, only makes us a wicked and a 
thoughtless one.” 

“ Well, Larry, I never expected to hear you running 
down the counthry after this fashion,” said Jim. 

“ ’Tis not the counthry, but the people. I’m running 
down, Jim,” replied Larry; “because I’m grieved to 
see what they are, when I think what they might be. - 
They won’t give themselves a fair chance, and only in- ' ' ' 
crease their throubles every day, by throwing more ob- 


108 


Stacies in the way of those who wish to serve and relieve 
’em It’s a terrible thing, Jim, to love one’s country in 
the very pulses of one’s heart, and yet to be obliged to 
feel ashamed of it ; for who would have the face to stand 
up and boast himself an Irishman now, a title that I once 
thought the greatest honour upon earth for a poor man 
as^^well as a rich, when the name is stained with blood 
and crime, and we are looked upon at every side as 
scarcely better than savages ?” 

“Well, Larry, that baits out everything. Savages, 
indeed ! Faith, if you were not a counthryman, and an 
ould friend into the bargain, and what’s more than either, 
an ould man, I’d be for showing you we’re not such sa- 
vages as you think, by breaking every bone in your body, 
and dhriving your ivories down your throat.” ^ 

“ Whisht ! Jim dear,” said Grace, giving an imploring 
look at 'the inflamed countenance of her husband ; “ sure 
" Larry didn’t maile to affront you, and don’t be after say- 
ing such ugly words.” 

Jim reached out his hand to Larry, who shook it and 
said, “ Now hear me, Jim, quietly for a minute. I’m 
too ould and feeble to resent threatenings, and I know 
you would not hurt me ; but you prove yourself all that 
I’ve been saying of the people. To show me you are ] 
not a savage, you would brutally maim me. Would not 
this prove to me, you were what I said ? So it is with 
the counthry and the people. Their violence confirms 
every report made to their disadvantage ; and their own 
actions speak more against them than the representations 
of their worst enemies. But, Jim, I’m heart-sick, so let 
us talk of something to comfort me ; let us talk of the 
Irishmen that console us for being Irish. Think of the 
honour it is to this poor counthry, that one can’t take up 
an Army List without being made as proud as a peacock, 
by seeing the numbers and numbers of Irish names, bet- 
ther known all over the world, than in their own ungrate- 
ful, ignorant, counthry. Sure, if Wellington is like the 
full moon in the middle of the sky, he has plenty of bright 
stars around him from his own poor little green island 




109 


to keep him company. Look at the Beresfords by land 
and sea ; there’s brothers for you, and Irish brothers too ! 
Who wouldn’t be proud of ’em ? Look at Londonderry, 
who never had a fault but being too anxious for fighting, 
as we all are. Then there’s Cole, Packenham, Pack, 
and Doyle. But if I was to go through half of ’em, 
when would I have done? Faith, it warms my heart to 
think of ’em, when it is chilled by shame at the crimes 
of the lawless. No, Jim, let us never forget to be proud 
of such heroes, for if we do, our bravery and courage 
cannot last ; for, as well may you expect a fire to continue 
burning without putting fuel on it, as to keep up courage 
and bravery wlien we are no longer proud of it. Sure 
the very brats of children running about half naked, has 
been known to stop when they heard all the people about 
’em spaiking of the grand battles Wellington fought, and 
clap their little hands and cry out, ‘We too will be sol- 
diers, and be talked about.’ 

“ But now, it is not he that has fought the battles of 
England and Ireland, in many a field of blood, and has 
for ever w’oven the shamrock with the laurels in his gar- 
land, that is to be our adviser, as he has been our pro- 
tector ; no, it’s him that has known no fields of battle 
except the four courts or the assizes, and has never seen 
blood drawn except from broken heads of the foolish boys 
he has set by the ears wdth his burning words ; it’s him 
that’s to taich us to forget all we loved and respected, 
and get ourselves made the laughing-stock of England, 
with the blustering speeches of our mimbers, and the 
mad agitation of ourselves, ready to take a hint for com- 
mitting crimes whenever we can get it. I’m an ould 
man, Jim, and maybe haven’t much gumption. I’ve seen 
this counthry often upset, and in danger from one cause 
another; but if you believe me, I never knew it so un- 
ruly or so ill-disposed as at present ; and if you take my 
advice, and it comes from an honest and loving heart for 
you and your nice dacent creathure of a wife, you’ll keep 
away from Repalers, and their rabble followers, and trust 

VOL. I. 10 


110 


to the generosity, the good sense, and the honour and 
honesty of England, to bring us out of our throubles.” 

Grace Cassidy listened with grateful attention to the 
good advice of Larry to her husband. She saw that it 
produced more eflect than all her representations had 
done, and she thought to herself, “ Well, how proud men 
are, and how obstinate when advice comes from a 
woman, and above all, a wife ; Larry has only repeated 
the same advice that I have so unsuccessfully given, and 
to which Jim paid no attention, and now he seems sen- 
sible of its value. But no matter, as long as he follows 
it, who it comes from ; sure it would be too much hap- 
piness for me to think / had brought him to his right 
mind, and I’ll bless Larry for ever if he does it,” 

Grace, in this instance, displayed a superiority over 
the generality of her sex, of which she, perhaps, was 
little conscious ; for if there is a point on which women 
are especially sensitive, it is in their jealousy of the in- 
fluence of other persons over the minds of those they 
love. This jealousy they themselves attribute to wounded 
affection, while the ill-natured set it down to the effects 
of wounded vanity. Something of both feelings may, 
perhaps, unite in producing it ; but, we are loth to search 
too profoundly into causes whose effects are at least flat- 
tering to the sterner sex, though they may not always be 
agreeable. The most painful and humiliating epoch in 
the life of a woman is, w'hen she has discovered that he 
on whom she has anchored her hopes of happiness is de- 
ficient in intellect, and yet has too much pride or too 
little love, to supply the deficiency by attending to her 
counsels. A woman of merely ordinary understanding, 
actuated by a strong affection, acquires wisdom by suf- 
fering; and, short-sighted as she might be for herself, 
becomes prescient for him she loves and would save, and 
whose destruction engulfs all her hopes. 


Ill 


CHAPTER XXIL 


“ No jealousy their dawn of love o’ercast, 

Nor blasted were their wedded days with strife ; 

Each season look’d delightful as it past 

To the fond husband and the faithful wife.” 

The time now approached for the marriage of Miss 
Desmond and Colonel Forrester. The lawyers bad sent 
the marriage settlement, which had taken a less than or- 
dinary time to arrange, from the unusual circumstance, 
that no obstacles, objections, or explanations had been 
started by opposing interests. Colonel Forrester had left 
all to the superintendence of his future father-in-law, and 
submitted his title-deeds, rent-roll, &c. to the inspection 
of Mr. Desmond’s solicitor, who was surprised to observe 
the confidence or carelessness of the Colonel in the affair, 
as he naturally expected to have found every covenant 
debated by the legal adviser of the lover. 

So little of love appears in the customary financial ar- 
rangements for marriages, that, on reading a settlement 
between contracting parties, one would be led to imagine 
that the bandeau which is supposed to envelope the eyes 
of love, was already removed, and that two enemies, in- 
stead of two lovers, were about to enter into a treaty of- 
fensive and defensive, the conditions of which required 
the strictest investigation. Every contingency of mishap 
and misconduct that can arrive to poor frail human na- 
ture is calculated upon ; and, while hearts and inclina- 
tions are becoming but as one, separate interests and 
purses are assured to her, whose pecuniary' interest ought 
to depend on him on whom her happiness must depend. 

No homily in the English language could so im- 
pressively convey the disenchanting conviction of the 
fickleness of affection, and the instability of felicity, as 
the provisions in a modern marriage settlement, which 


112 


are as little in harmony with religions feeling as they are 
■ irr uhison with love. Were women to peruse such docu- 
av ments, never could they approach the altar with the idea 
that the engagement about to be contracted, was either 
so awful or so sacred as all pure and elevated minds are 
prone and desirous to consider it. “ Those whom God 
has put together let no man separate,” seems to be for- 
gotten, as more provisions are made for the possibility 
of a hostile separation, than for that of preserving and 
cementing the irrevocable, though dissoluble bond of 
union. 

How far such'provisions may influence the future des- 
tinies of the contracting parties, we will not stop to in- 
quire; but we should like to see marriage made a less 
business-like speculation, and that she who resigns her 
affections and her liberty into the care of him she loves, 
should not contemplate a possibility of aught save death 
dividing them. 

Mr. Desmond was not to be surpassed in generosity 
by Colonel Forrester. He made no distinction or sepa- 
rate interests between his daughter and future son-in- 
law, and the “What, Sir, will you not tie up this estate, 
and strictly entail such and such a property?” was 
checked by his prompt and explicit instructions. 

The marriage of the lovers was celebrated in the pa- 
rish church, the same sacred spot that had witnessed the 
baptism of Frances, in the presence of a few of the most 
intimate friends of the family. The happy couple did 
not, after partaking of an elegant dejeune d la fourchette 
at the mansion of the bride’s father, (to which a distin- 
guished circle of fashionables were not invited,) set off 
in a splendid new post chariot and four, with postilions 
and outriders, to pass the honeymoon at some distant 
inn, or elegant villa, where the blushes of the bride are 
exposed to the gaze of admiring waiters and smiling 
chambermaids, or to the more respectful, though scarcely 
less embarrassing observation of strange servants. There 
was no rich trousseau displayed, or elegant corbeille ex- 
hibited, for the excitation of the envy of friends and the 


113 


vanity of the presenter and 'presented; no; the tasteful 
and well-chosen wardrobe that had adorned Miss Des- 
mond, or rather that she had adorned, since her depar- 
ture from London a few months before, was considered 
sufficiently rich for Mrs. Forrester. That apparel which 
had robed her lovely person when she attracted the ad- 
miration of the lover, was thought good enough, and 
likely enough, to retain the affection of the husband ; so 
that the nuptials of the lovely Frances Desmond and her 
enamoured bridegroom were as unlike “ a marriage in 
high life,” as they were dissimilar to the generality of 
lovers to be found in that circle. 

Their honeymoon was passed in the paternal mansion 
at Springmount, and their happiness was enhanced by 
its being partaken by their affectionate and gratified pa- 
rents, who were not, like most parents under such cir- 
cumstances, left in solitude to feel that in acquiring a 
son-in-law they had lost a daughter. 

“ How I wish, dearest Frances,” said Colonel Forres- 
ter, “ that I could see this fine country in a state of tran- 
quillity, and the good qualities of the people allowed to 
develope themselves ! I have liked Ireland from my first 
arrival, but now, can I do otherwise than love the coun- 
try that has given you birth ?” 

A sweet smile repaid the compliment, and Frances 
said — “ You will not. I’m sure, entertain a less affection 
for me, when I confess that I should never have allowed 
myself to feel towards you as I do, had you disliked my 
poor abused country. I must acknowledge, it is not the 
most happy place to live in ; and when I have returned 
from dear tranquil England, and seen the melancholy 
contrast which ill-fated Ireland offered to the scenes I 
had left, I have been selfish enough to wish to reside 
altogether in England. Judge then, how well I can ap- 
preciate the liberality of liking this country under all its 
disadvantages ; and how I must esteem ihd person who 
can be content to remain here. I see and lament the 
faults of the Irish,” continued Frances ; ‘^but I pity and 
love the people notwithstanding their faults, and would 


114 


gladly make any personal sacrifice to ameliorate their 
condition, or to assist in forwarding their civilization.” 

“ We will join in the task,” replied Colonel Forrester; 
“ with kindness and patience much may be effected.” 

“You must make up your mind,” observed Frances, 
“ not to be greatly surprised or incensed, if you find our 
efforts unavailing or repaid with ingratitude. Look at 
all my dear father and mother have done, through a sense 
of duty, giving up for years their friends and society in 
England, society and friends so congenial to their tastes, 
to live on their estate in a sort of honourable exile. Until 
a short time ago, this truly conscientious and disinterested 
sacrifice seemed to be felt and valued by their dependants, 
and they were universally beloved; but the voice of the 
agitators silenced that of gratitude, and those who were 
the most attached to our family, are now taught to regard 
us with suspicion, if not with dislike. In no other coun- 
try must the principle of doing good for its own sake, 
be so much acted upon as here; for, one has seldom the 
pleasure of seeing one’s efforts crowned with success, 
and still more seldom that of having them acknowledged. 
A landlord who had passed his life as my father has done, 
in the most conscientious and kind discharge of the du- 
ties which that character imposes, would find his popu- 
larity fall to the ground before a Repealer’s first burst of 
hyperbolical eloquence, and the good actions of a long 
life thrown into the shade by an inflammatory string of 
tropes, metaphors, and similes, artfully addressed to the 
passions of their dupes; and, alas! those who mislead 
them, are rich in these tinsel attributes, and in these 
alone. My dear father was giving an instance the other 
day, of how little impression solid acts of service made 
on the Irish, in comparison with professions ; his illus- 
tration of this peculiarity was derived from the career of 
Sir John Newport, who has passed his life in the most 
active and judicious exertions for Ireland ; and the con- 
sequence is, that the lower orders not only neither regard 
nor revere, but do not even name him, while they ap- 
plaud to the very skies any one of their mouthing orators 


115 


with ‘ Repeal’ on his lips, and self-aggrandisement in his 
heart. All this is very discouraging, but we must have 
patience, and liope for better times.” 

“ What appears to me most disadvantageous to Ire- 
land,” said Colonel Forrester, “ is the want of that re- 
spectable middle class that exists in England, and which 
has such an influence on the lower orders. Here I ob- 
serve few, if any, of the farmers who have such weight, 
and to whom the labourers refer as guides and examples 
in England. Men who have stakes in the country are 
unwilling to risk what they possess; and the most elo- 
quent agitator who ever inflamed an Irish rabble, would 
find his rhetoric fall unheeded on ears accustomed to the 
chink of money. We English, who have not lived in 
Ireland some months, conclude that the meetings so 
numerously attended there, are composed of the middle 
class, and consequently we attach an importance to them 
as organs of public opinion. But if it w'as generally 
known that they are for the most part composed of the 
very dregs of the people, the sediment that ought to be 
at the bottom, but ‘ which rises upwards when the nation 
boils,’ we should think differently, and cease to wonder 
that, to a set of ignorant and penniless men who have 
nothing to lose, and are easily led to hope that something 
may be gained, the harangues of the wordy and inflam- 
matory Repealers are as a law which they blindly adopt 
to work the will of their crafty leaders, who use them 
as pioneers to break down all that intercepts their own 
march in the career of selfish policy and overreaching 
ambition. 

“ One thing we must admit, dearest,” continued Colo- 
nel Forrester, “ namely, that had this country not been 
dreadfully misgoverned, the agitators who now occupy 
so much attention, would either have been usefully and 
honourably filling the situation to which talent seldom 
fails to elevate men in free countries, or they would have 
had no opportunities e/f making a mischievous use of it. 
Had the distinguished individual who now sits on the 
woolsack in England been an Irishman, and a Catholic, 


116 


what might he not have been instead? Would the pow- 
erful talents with which Providence has gifted him, re- 
main unemployed? And if no field of distinction was 
open to them, who can say that disappointed ambition, 
led on by the consciousness of innate power, might not 
have made him who now presides over law an open vio- 
later of it? We are all the creatures of chance and cir- 
cumstance to a certain degree. Great talents are seldom, 
if ever, unaccompanied by ambition. Under other and 
happier aspects, he who convulses Ireland might have 
been the pacificator, for no one can deny that he has 
talents to be anything he pleases ; and did England labour 
under the misery and disqualifications that have oppressed 

Ireland for centuries. Lord might be an agitator 

instead of a chancellor. 

“ The talents of such men as he who governs the 
lower classes in Ireland, ought to be public property, 
and should constitute part of the riches of a country. Is 
it not melancholy that misrule should have turned them 
from their natural channel, and that, like some fine 
stream, meant to fertilize a country, stopped in its course 
and bursting into violence from being checked, it over- 
flows, and bearing down the riches it might have so 
much enhanced, is only to be traced by the ruin it has 
spread?” 

“ Is it possible, dearest, that you are an advocate for 
agitators?” said Frances. “ You almost persuade me to 
pity instead of disliking them.” 

“ I look to cause when I trace effect,” said Colonel 
Forrester; “and though I shudder at the mischief to 
which agitation has led and may yet lead, candour obliges 
me to own, that few men possessed of the talents of the 
arch-agitator, could, under the untoward circumstances 
in which he found himself, have resisted to be what he 
is. He might have been a great man; at present he is 
only a remarkable one. 


117 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

“ But they do only strive themselves to raise, 

Through pompous pride and foolish vanity ; 

In th’ eyes of people they put all their praise, 

And only boast of arms and ancestry; 

But virtuous deeds, which did those arms first give 
To their grandsires, they care not to achieve.” 

The letters Colonel Forrester had written to his family 
in England, announcing his marriage, had been answered 
by cordial and affectionate congratulations from all. That 
from his sister. Lady Oriel, breathed the most tender 
prayers and wishes for his happiness ; but a tone of me- 
lancholy, almost amounting to solemnity, pervaded her 
letter, and threw a damp over the spirits of her brother. 
He felt as if the earnestness with which she prayed for 
a continuance of his happiness, conveyed an indefinable 
impression that her own was not equally secure ; and a 
vague dread that all was not well with her, hung over 
his mind. 

The family at Springmount accepted an invitation to 
dine at Lord Abberville’s, a nobleman who resided near 
them. They found the few fashionables the neighbour- 
hood could muster, assembled to meet them. Even the 
remote district of the county of Waterford could boast 
its fashionables and exclusives ; for where do not folly 
and pretension penetrate ? 

Lord Abberville owed his title to the Union, and a 
certain, or rather uncertain, portion of his income to a 
judicious and persevering system of jobbing, only known 
in Ireland. The rents of his overlet property were paid 
by presentments which he had influence with the grand 
jury of the county to get passed, and which allowed 
large sums to be expended in making roads over his 
estates; the work to be done by his tenants, and the mo- 
ney to find its way into his coffers. Presentments for 


118 


roads never required, and where a horse-track was al 
that was necessary, passed at every assizes, until his 
property was intersected by as many lines as a miniature 
map of Europe; while the roads really necessary for 
establishing communications for agricultural or commer- 
cial purposes were totally neglected. 

Few persons ever theoretically or practically under- 
stood the whole arcana of the system of jobbing so per- 
fectly as Lord Abberville, and few had derived more 
advantages from it. Can it, therefore, be wondered at, 
that he was strenuously opposed to every attempt to re- 
form the old state of things, and was loud and vehement 
in decrying innovations, or, as he called them, projects 
for the subversion of the constitution. Every change 
introduced to correct the abuses under which the country 
had been so long impoverished for the enrichment of a 
.few, was considered by him as a spoliation of his pro- 
perty, and resented as acts of crying and flagrant injus- 
tice. He grew pathetic when he expatiated on such 
hardships, and inwardly cursed the march of intellect 
which had rendered them necessary. 

Lord Abberville was a representative peer, and had 
supported every government that had ruled the country 
since he enjoyed a seat in the House of Lords. Indeed, 
the possibility of opposing ministers, who had anything 
to give away, had never entered his head; though it has 
been asserted on more than one occasion, that he had 
threatened to vote against them, unless certain sinecures 
were granted to his near relatives, and certain advantages 
accorded to himself. But this, we are willing to believe, 
was mere scandal, having too good an opinion of peers 
in general, and of Irish peers in particular, to believe 
that any of them would be capable of such conduct. 

Lady Abberville was a woman of fashion in Ireland, 
and a complaisant follower of women of fashion in Eng- 
land, She was indefatigable in her exertions to be useful 
to the patronesses of the exclusive circle in which her 
activity had succeeded in getting her tolerated; and she 
would drive, ride, or walk, from one end of the town to 


119 


the other, to execute their high behests, and perform all 
the disagreeable parts of the duties that devolved on 
them. Was a party to be got up on a short notice? she 
was despatched to entreat the attendance of the desired 
guests. Was some unlucky person to be cut? she was 
appointed to perform the operation ; and far from feeling 
the humiliating position in which she had placed herself, 
she gloried in it. She kept up an extensive correspond- 
ence, knew everything that was going on everywhere, 
and could amuse with her gossip the tedious hours of 
les grand dames between the dejeune and the prome- 
nade. She possessed a power of obiquity as extraordinary 
as her loquacity, and was as humble and complaisant 
with the magnates of the land and their high-born ladies, 
as she was brusque and impertinent to those whom she 
considered to be her inferiors. Tracasserie was as con- 
genial to her, as repose and peace are to others. Her 
mauvaise langue had become proverbial, and its results 
were to involve her in constant explanations, in which 
she was accused of showing a philosophical disregard to 
veracity, the dictates of which she seemed to consider 
too obsolete for her practice. 

The presence of Lord and Lady Abberville in their 
county was always hailed with dread by their neigh- 
bours ; they only came to raise the supplies for carrying 
on the campaign in England, or to get up some political 
address to convey [an impression in England that his 
lordship had weight in Ireland. The delusion occasioned 
by these stratagems constituted the only reason for his 
visits being tolerated at the Treasury ; where he was in 
the habit of intruding them for the purpose of having it 
announced in the papers, that on such or such a day 
Lord Abberville had an interview with the First Lord of 
the Treasury, which announcement, being always co- 
pied into the Irish papers, failed not to produce its effect 
there. Thus, by passing in England as a man who had 
influence in Ireland, and in Ireland as a nobleman who 
had considerable weight in England, he contrived to 
impose on both nations, impressing them with a mutual 


120 


bad opinion of the sagacity of the other ; for, the First 
Lord of the Treasury of each administration that had 
held the reins of government has been heard to say, 
“What a country Ireland must be, and what barbarous 
people the Irish, when such a man as Lord Abberville 
can have any influence with them !” And the gentry of 
Ireland, ever prone to stigmatize England, have been 
known to dwell with bitter sarcasms on the English 
ministry being so credulous as to believe that such a ta- 
lentless and unprincipled jobber as the peer should have 
power to be of use to them in Ireland. 

Lady Abberville profited by the political profligacy of 
her husband, which she aided and abetted to the utmost 
of her power; but she held his abilities and opinions in 
perfect scorn, and perhaps the only sentiment common 
to each was, a contemptuous dislike of the other. 

The guests at Abberville-house consisted of two or 
three of the neighbouring families, the General com- 
manding the district, and two field officers of the regi- 
ment in the neighbourhood. 

The host and hostess assumed their most bland smiles 
to welcome Mr. and Mrs. Desmond, and Col. and Mrs. 
Forrester, as Lady Abberville felt they might not only 
be useful acquaintances in Ireland, where the fortune and 
character of Mr. Desmond gave him great influence, but 
the connexion was a desirable one to be kept up in Eng- 
land. The relative importance of each of the guests 
might be ascertained by the diplomatic attentions paid 
them by the lord and lady of the mansion, which were 
empresse, coldly polite, or indifferent, according to their 
supposed capabilities of forwarding the host’s plans. 
The General was fete, because a plot of barren land 
which Lord Abberville had tried various modes of getting 
rid of, was now discovered by his lordship to be most 
admirably adapted for building a barrack on; this ground 
was to be disposed of to Government for not more than 
six times its value. The opinion of the General as to 
the eligibility of the situation for a barrack, would pro- 
bably decide the Government in buying the land; and 


the opinion of Mr. Desmond and the other gentlemen 
invited, as to the necessity of having a large body of 
troops on the spot, and consequently of erecting a bar- 
rack to contain them, would decide its being built. 

li was settled between the host and hostess, that while 
one harangued the gentlemen in the dining-room on the 
advantages of having troops and a barrack, the other 
should impress on the minds of the ladies the improve- 
ment such an event must produce to the neighbourhood. 
Young men of family and fortune, with which the mili- 
tary profession abounded, would be thrown amongst 
them, balls and private theatricals would be the certain 
result, and what such exhilarating amusements and near 
vicinity might lead to, was implied so clearly as to 
enlist the mammas and daughters of her circle most 
warmly in the interest of Lady Abberville. 

The dinner passed off* much as all dinners in similar 
houses pass. The more recherche part of the guests 
detected various proofs of the incompetence of the artiste 
to the task he had attempted, and pronounced him not 
skilled in the arcanum recondite of Monsieur Tide's 
cuisine; while the less fastidious, who looked more to 
the quantity than the quality of the repast, averred it to 
be excellent. 

The interesting investigations of the comparative 
merits of sherry and madeira, of dry and sweet cham- 
pagne, and the equally important question whether hock 
was or was not better when iced, had given place to 
local topics, when Lady Abberville, anxious to show her 
importance to some of her less fashionable friends, led 
the conversation to England. She had received letters 
that day from the Duchess of Wellborough, and the 
Marchioness of Nottingham, filled with reproaches for 
staying so long away from them. Indeed, she had pro- 
mised ere they allowed her to depart from London, that 
she would return in two months, “ but it was so hard” 
(bowing to her guests) “to leave her own agreeable 
neighbourhood, that she always found it difficult to tear 
herself away.” 

VOL. I. 


11 


122 


This compliment of course elicited a flattering rejoin- 
der from some of the persons who concluded themselves 
to be designated in the circle of agreeable neighbourhood ; 
and then Lady Abberville, resuming the conversation, 
observed, that at this moment her absence from England 
was peculiarly unfortunate, as her friends wished to con- 
sult her as to the possibility of continuing to receive a 
lady who had placed herself in a very false position. 
The elderly ladies looked grave, and the young ones of 
the party thought it necessary to flx their eyes on their 
plates, and to blush, while the hostess, “ on scandalous 
thoughts intent,” proceeded to state, that it was indeed a 
very difficult case to decide on, as, though much publi- 
city and scandal had taken place, the husband of the 
lady in question had continued to live with her. The 
Duchess of Wellborough and Lady Nottingham were 
disposed to give her their countenance, but she must say, 
she thought it a case in which an example ought to be 
made, as the lady had been a very prominent person in 
society, and had frequently marred the regulations and 
exclusions of the Lady Patronesses by an affected good 
nature, repeatedly giving admissions to persons of no 
sort of fashion, to whose solicitations the other patro- 
nesses had turned a deaf ear. “ Altogether,” continued 
Lady Abberville, “ I never liked the lady. She had too 
much pretension for my taste— had the rage for encou- 
raging les beaux arts, and doing a thousand other equally 
outre things ; and as for getting her to join our clique in 
the measures we so often find it necessary to adopt, it 
was out of the question. She opposed herself to cutting 
or leaving off people, and, in fact, always gave us trouble 
by never being cVaccord with the other Lady Patro- 
nesses.” 

Mrs. Kennedy, a well-meaning but obtuse country 
lady, who was present, turned to her daughter and said, 
“ You see, Kate, I told you that Lady Abberville was 
one of the patronesses at Almack’s, though you tried to 
persuade me she was not.” 

This mal-apropos observation, originating in the use 




123 


of the W5, evidently discomposed the self-complacency of 
the hostess, and as evidently amused the rest of the 
guests ; while to avoid the necessity of giving a definite 
answer, which she felt the persevering obtusity of Mrs. 
Kennedy would endeavour to elicit, she interrupted her 
observations by adding, “ How very incurious you all 
are ! No one has asked me to name the fair delinquent. 
Now, in England, fifty questions would have been asked, 
and as many guesses made, before I had got half through 
my statement. Does this difference proceed from your 
being less curious, or more good-natured than our English 
neighbours ? or, as I suppose, does it originate in your 
ignorance of the parties in question, which makes you 
indifferent to what has put all the fashionable world in 
England in a fever? Well then, the heroine of this, 
what shall I call it ? tragedy, comedy, or drama in high 
life, is — Lady Oriel.” 

Mrs. Forrester felt almost ready to drop off her chair 
when the name of Lady Oriel was pronounced, and she 
stole a glance at her husband, whose face became pale 
as death, and then was suffused with crimson. Mr. and 
Mrs. Desmond were the only persons at the table aware 
of the near relationship of Lady Oriel to Colonel For- 
rester ; and they, pitying his embarrassment, made some 
remarks to draw the attention of the party to another 
subject. Mrs. Forrester would have given the world to 
be alone with her husband that she might speak comfort 
to him, or, if that was impossible, share his chagrin ; 
and never did a few minutes that the ladies remained in 
the salle a manger, appear so long to her. 

At length Lady Abberville arose, and led the way to 
the drawing-room ; but, before quitting the room, Mrs. 
Forrester exchanged an affectionate glance with her 
husband ; a glance which spoke volumes to them both. 
Frances had never liked Lady Abberville, but now she 
felt an antipathy towards her ; she detected the covert 
envy, hatred, and malice, that instigated this calumny of 
the young and beautiful Lady Oriel ; and turned in dis- 
gust from a ’^voman whose reputation had through life 


124 


been so often pulled to pieces, that, though patched up, 
the rents were visible, proving the truth of the homely 
French proverb, “ Une reputation pldiree est comme 
un has raccommode qui laisse toujours voir ou la de^ 
faut existait.^^ No one had presumed on, and profited 
by, the indulgence of the world more largely than had 
Lady Abberville, and no one showed a greater disposi- 
tion to deprive others of a similar advantage. Hers had 
not only been “ a youth of folly, and old age of cards,” 
but a youth and maturity of flirting, and an old age of 
scandal, envy, and defamation. Every man and every 
woman’s tongue had been against her, and hers was now 
turned against all whom she did' not- fear,, and they were 
few, but sacred in her eyes ; as, all the advantages and 
disadvantages to be derived from being on good or -bad 
terms with them having been maturely weighed, and the 
former found to preponderate, amity was proved to be 
tlie wiser course, and prudence therefore triumphed over 
malice. 

Mrs. Forrester seized the first opportunity of approach- 
ing her mother, without exciting attention ; a pressure of 
tlie hand showed how deeply she sympjjithized in the 
feelings of her daughter ; and an air of .^cold and digni- 
fied politeness on the part of both ladies towards the 
intriguing hostess, — which neither all her most amusing 
anecdotes of fashionable scandal, nor her deferential 
attentions, could change into a more cordial manner, — 
made her feel that something, she could not imagine 
what, had gone wrong. 

Colonel Forrester sat in agony in the salle a manger. 
Now was revealed to him the cause of the melancholy 
that pervaded his sister’s last letter. Why had she not 
told him all, instead of allowing the dreadful news to 
break thus unexpectedly upon him ? And yet knowing 
her as he did, feeling convinced of her purity, it was im- 
possible to believe that she could have merited the scan- 
dal which had fallen on her name. No, his dear sister 
was innocent ; was the victim of false appearances ; and, 
with a husband so morbidly susceptible even to the' 


125 


approach of ignominy, what must be her situation ? Ilis 
mind was in a chaos ; and, to the continual references 
for his opinion, made by his garrulous host, always on 
subjects immediately or remotely connected with his own 
personal interest, Colonel Forrester only replied by an 
absent bow or incoherent monosyllables. 

Counting the moments with impatience until he could 
leave a house now become hateful to him, as the scene 
of the defamation of his dear sister, and of the profana- 
tion of her name by the viper tongue of its mistress, he 
sat in painful reflection on the odious theme. When 
Lady Oriel had first become the subject of conversation, 
he could scarcely refrain from denouncing the slanderer, 
and vindicating the fair fame of his sister ; but a moment’s 
consideration had taught him the imprudence of a mea- 
sure which could only have tended to compromise still 
more, not only her dignity but his own. A doubt of his 
sister’s purity had never entered his mind, and his heart 
overflowed with tenderness and pity when he thought of 
her. He felt that she was exposed to humiliations which 
her delicate feelings were little calculated to support ; 
and, above all, exposed to the morbid susceptibility of 
her husband, who would shrink under every infliction, 
until he made her endure the most insupportable of all 
annoyance, that of having drawn publicity and defama- 
tion on another, and that other, not only incapable of 
despising the unmerited stigma, but even of concealing 
the sufferings which it caused. 

The host’s self-compliments, demands for approbation, 
and insinuations of influence with “ the powers that be,” 
were at last concluded, and the gentlemen joined the 
ladies in the drawing-room. Colonel Forrester would 
have unceremoniously sought them an hour before, but 
that he dreaded to find himself with Lady Abberville, 
even still more than to be compelled to listen to the ver- 
bose, oft-beginning, never-ending, histories of her Lord. 
Mr. Desmond entered into all his feelings; and the sym- 
pathy of his wife, father, and mother-in-law, if it pre- 


126 


vented not the wound offered to his peace, at least carried 
oil and wine to it. 

Those are indeed fortunate who find, when sorrow 
assails them, that friendship administers an anodyne ; 
and as this good fortune becomes more rare, it is like all 
rarities, enjoyed still more poignantly. There is no 
situation into which our own errors can plunge us, 
wherein we do not call up pride or fortitude to support 
us, and enable us to forego the commiseration of friends; 
but when some one dear to us has drawn down the burn- 
ing coals of scandal on her devoted head, then it is that we 
most require sympathy to enable us to bear up against 
the tide of defamation ; and to prove to us that we are 
sufficiently loved, to gain forbearance for the object of 
our interest, a belief in her innocence, or pity for her 
errors. 

Colonel Forrester knew that she whom he had chosen 
for his wife, would take his affirmation for the honour of 
his sister ; and so would her parents. But how dread- 
ful to be compelled to affirm that which ought never to 
have been doubted ! and of a sister, too, of whom he was 
so justly proud ! 

Music, as ill executed as the company were ill assorted, 
filled up the weary hour-and-a-half between the arrival 
of the gentlemen in the drawing-room and the announce- 
ment of the carriages. The listening to bad music was 
one of the many penances the diplomatic Lady Abber- 
ville imposed on herself during her exile in Ireland. 
Not to ask Miss Kennedy and the other Misses to play 
and sing, would have deeply mortified the young ladies, 
and offended their mammas, who failed not to repeat in 
all circles, how charmed Lady Abberville had been with 
Kate or Maria’s singing and execution on the piano- 
forte. 

No sooner did the family from Springmount find them- 
selve alone in the coach, than Colonel Forrester declared, 
that what he had heard relative to his sister had given 
him such pain, that he had determined to go to England. 


127 


Mr. Desmond immediately said, “We will all go, my 
dear son, for our presence may be useful ; at all events 
we will not be separated from you when you have any 
annoyance to undergo.” 

Mrs. Desmond also expressed her kind wishes, and 
Frances placed her hand in his, as with animation she 
declared her impatience to be with her dear sister, whom 
she had already learned to love, but now doubly so, be- 
cause she doubly required the affection of her friends. 

Hasty preparations were made for their departure from 
Ireland, and the journey was performed as expeditiously 
as was consistent with the comfort of Mr. and Mrs. Des- 
mond. On their arrival in London, Colonel Forrester 
wrote to his sister, announcing his intention of paying 
her a visit, accompanied by his wife. He did not touch 
on the reports that had reached him, as he wished the 
first notice of them should come from Lady Oriel. In- 
deed, he only desired to be made acquainted with the 
real state of affairs, that he might know how best to 
remedy the evil ; for he felt that the retiring habits and 
extreme sensitiveness of Lord Oriel peculiarly unfitted 
him for taking the necessary steps in the painful situa- 
tion in which his wife was placed. 

The return of the post brought him a warm invitation 
from Lord Oriel for the whole party to proceed to Oriel 
Park, and a letter from his sister; before perusing which, 
it is necessary for us to make our readers acquainted 
w'ith Lord and Lady Oriel. 


128 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

“Her lively looks a sprightly mind disclose, 

Quick as her eyes, and as unfix’d as those ; 

Favours to none, to all she smiles extends. 

Oft she rejects, but never once offends. 

Bright as the sun, her eyes the gazers strike. 

And, like the sun, they shine on all alike!” 

Lady Oriel was a young and lovely woman, remarka- 
blefor talent, vivacity, and that esprit de societe, qui met 
tout en train. Mistress of a fine house, bien montee^ 
and placed by an indulgent husband at the head of a 
large fortune, she was one of the leaders of haut ton, 
and bore her blushing honours so good-naturedly, if not 
meekly, that she might almost be pardoned her success. 
So proverbial had her good-nature become, that she was 
by the satirical considered and called the “ Refuge of the 
Destitute for if the wife of some county member liv- 
ing at the other side of Oxford-street, and blessed with 
two daughters, the softened images of their sapient papa 
and common-place mamma, wished to exhibit herself 
and progeny at Almack’s, and, to accomplish this desira- 
ble project, had assailed, but assailed in vain, all the 
other patronesses. Lady Oriel was la derniere ressource, 
and a resource that rarely failed. Did some young and 
thoughtless woman, whose beauty had excited still more 
female enemies than male admirers, find herself in that 
perilous condition of being barely tolerated where she 
had been sought, and more than one-half of the society 
standing aloof to observe how she was received by the 
other. Lady OriePs frank shake hands, cordial accueil, 
or apropos invitation to a ball or soiree bien choisie, 
turned the scale in her favour, and re-established her, if 
not “ in decencies for ever,” at least in fashionable so- 
ciety. Did a young painter or sculptor, pining in ob- 
scurity, wish to exhibit his personification of the beau 
ideal that haunted his visions and grew beneath his hand, 


129 


Lady Oriel’s elegant salons received his work ; where 
her bland smile and just commendation found for it ad- 
mirers and purchasers among those who had hardly 
deigned to remark it in a less dignified asylum. 

Lady Oriel’s beauty was so regular, her air so distin- 
gue, and her manner so comme il faut, and withal so 
fascinating, that her reputation as a first-rate belle was 
not merely an affaire de convention. I really do believe, 
though long experience has rendered me sceptical on 
such points, that even without her husband’s rent-roll of 
sixty thousand a year (which always throws a heavy 
balance into the scale in which beauty, talents, and 
manners are weighed), she would always have been 
considered as a most captivating woman ; indeed, an 
irrefragable proof of the correctness of this opinion is, 
that her husband maintained it after a union of four 
years — an argument that must silence all sceptics. 

But though the beauty, talents, and accomplishments 
of Lady Oriel were such as fell to the lot of few ; her 
faults, alas ! though they were only those which too 
generally attend such qualities, threw a shade on them 
that cast its sombre hue o’er many a future year : — but 
let me not anticipate. Lady Oriel had married at seven- 
teen, and made what might indeed have been called a 
most desirable match. Lord Oriel was five-and-twenty, 
remarkably handsome, good-looking, well-informed, 
good-tempered, of an ancient family, and enjoying not 
only a very large, but that now rare possession, an un- 
encumbered fortune ; and, rarely, as it happens, the last- 
mentioned circumstance had little if any influence in the 
choice of his wife, who really married him because she 
preferred him to all others. Theirs was in truth a union 
of affection ! 

Lord Oriel to an easiness of disposition that shrank 
from trouble, conjoined a delicate susceptibility on many 
points that was often opposed to it. He wished — nay 
more, expected — that those he loved, should anticipate 
his feelings and guess his sentiments ; and when this, 
as has too often been the case, did not occur, he retired 


130 


in silence, the arrow of disappointment rankling in his 
breast, to brood over his supposed wrongs, when a kind 
and frank exposition might have realized all his wishes. 

Lady Oriel’s besetting sin was coquetry ; commenced 
in a wish to please (let us call it by no harsher name), it 
animated all her pursuits, and guided all her actions. 
This desire to fascinate equally influenced her in her 
bearing and conduct to both the old and the young ; in 
it originated the air of captivated attention with which 
she listened to the aged and polished raconteur; the 
piquant smile with which she repaid the young and 
fashionable homme de bonne compagnie for his sallies ; 
the suavity which characterized her intercourse with her 
own sex, to each of whom she had something aimable 
to say ; and even the joyous game of romps, or pretty 
stories, with which she made captive the hearts and ears 
of all the children she encountered. 

Yet let me do her the justice to say, there was no- 
thing artificial in all this. Happy and pleased with her- 
self, she wished to please and render happy all who 
surrounded her ; and this habit, by indulgence, so grew 
on her, that it soon became incurable, and the frais 
made to accomplish it but too evident. 

During the first few months of her marriage, which 
were passed in the country, paying and receiving the 
visits of all the relations and neighbours of her husband, 
he was proud of her success. When the old dwelt on 
her praises, and the eyes of the young sparkled when 
she appeared, he shared her triumph, nay, attributed the 
pains she took to please to her wish of gratifying him by 
attentions to his friends ; and he repaid her efforts by a 
thousand fond commendations. 

But when, arrived in London, among strangers, he 
saw the same frais made day after day and night after 
night, he began to think it was unnecessary, if not un- 
dignified ; and as he stood aloof, — wincing and witness- 
ing the air half nonchalant of some, and trop empresse 
of others, surrounding his lovely wife, basking beneath 
the sunshine of her smile and the summer-lightnings of 


131 


her playful wit somewhat too animatedly displayed — he 
wished her success had been less general, or at least that 
less pains had been taken to obtain it. He felt hurt that 
she did not remark that he no longer participated in her 
triumph ; he daily expected some tender reproach, 
which would give him a good opportunity of hinting his 
disapproval ; but his tacit acquiescence passed with her 
for tacit approbation, and she continued to throw her 
fascinations around, unconscious that she was wounding 
the heart most dear to her on earth, and encouraging a 
host of pretenders, whose attentions, and the evident 
pleasure with which they were received, excited obser- 
vations injurious to her delicacy, if not to her fame. 

Among the host of admirers (though as yet they had 
not dared to avow themselves as such) who followed in 
her train. Lord Delmore was the most dangerous. 
Handsome, clever, well-educated, and highly polished in 
his manners — but cold-hearted, calculating, and unimagina- 
tive, the success he had met with in London and on the 
Continent had fostered his natural vanity, until it had 
become almost overweening ; and his selfishness, that 
vice so unpardonable in the young, was proverbial with 
those who knew him. Lady Oriel’s position attracted, 
and her beauty captivated him ; her animation in his 
presence he attributed to her wish of fixing him in her 
chains ; and, undoubting the success of his final con- 
quest, he played with her as a skilful angler plays with 
the fish he is about to ensnare ; one day coldly polite, 
replying to all her sallies with an air of pre-occupation, 
until he had piqued her into something like interest ; 

1 and the next all attention, seeming to dwell on each 
word and movement of hers with that deep impassioned 
^ sentiment so flattering to woman’s vanity. Lord Del- 
more had ruined more female reputations than any young 
|. man about town ; and the good name of many a woman, 
whose virtue had resisted his arts, fell a sacrifice to his 
inuendoes and insidious attentions — attentions always 
calculated to impress the most false conclusions on the 
minds of the beholders. 


132 


He soon became a daily visitor at Oriel House ; Lord 
Oriel remarked it with bitterness of feeling, and became 
gradually more cold and reserved towards his wife, think- 
ing that she must and ought to have guessed his senti- 
ments, and lamenting her total want of sympathy with 
them. 

- Lady Oriel became piqued by the visible coldness and 
want of attention of her husband ; and, comparing it with 
the devourment of Lord Delmore, accused the former of 
negligence and unkindness, of which every day furnished 
new proofs. She therefore determined to show him, that 
though he might regard her with indifference, she could 
excite the most lively interest in others. 

Alas ! women look more to effeat than to cause. They 
all feel, but how few can reason ! and men whose duty, 
whose interest it is, to reflect on this peculiarity, seldom 
give themselves the trouble to think on the subject until 
it is too late. I believe it is Fontenelle who says that 
women have a fibre more in the heart, and a cell less in 
the brain, than men ; it is this fibre that responds to “ the 
nerve where agonies are born,” so that all that women 
want in reasoning powers, they make up for in feeling. 
Dearly have they paid for this additional fibre ; and it is 
not until age has unstrung its energies, that it ceases to 
vibrate notes of wo. 

But to return to our subject. Lady Oriel, like all 
women in a similar situation, became insensible to the 
observations to which the marked attentions of Lord Del- 
more subjected her. They had been so gradual, that 
her ihind had become accustomed to them ; and, free 
from guilt, or even the apprehension of guilt, she was 
fearless of calumny. 

When, day after day, her morning visitors, male and fe- 
male, found her tete-a-tete in her boudoir with Lord Del- 
more, an album or poem open before them, and he 
seeming to think (and showing that he so thought) the 
interruption an ill-timed intrusion, the visitors gradually 
dropped off, observing, with a shake of the head or ma- 


133 


licious smile, that they were tie trap at Grosvenor 
Square. 

When Lady Oriel appeared in public, Lord Delmore 
was sure to be seen near her. In the Park he was al- 
ways close to her carriage, and he observed, and disco- 
vered with pleasure, thougli she little suspected it, that 
their liaison was now looked on as established in the 
coteries in which they moved. 

And now was the time that Lady Oriel felt the want 
of some female relation or friend, to hint to her the dan- 
ger of her position, or to take from its danger, by break- 
ing in upon the daily tete-a-tete with Lord Delmore. 
Over and over again had Lord Oriel decided on speaking 
or on writing to her, but still delayed his intention, hoping 
that she would render such a painful step unnecessary, by 
becoming aware of her own danger. Yet still she went 
on, and each day added something to the danger, or if 
not to the danger, to the appearance of impropriety, to 
which Lord Delmore’s attentions exposed her. 

How many women have been lost by this false, this 
mistaken delicacy on the part of a husband, when a tem- 
perate or kind remonstrance might have saved them from 
ruin, disgrace, and endless remorse ! and while a hus- 
band temporises, even with his own anxiety, by think- 
ing that parliament will soon be up, or that at such or 
such a time his departure from town must break the in- 
timacy that offends him, the liaison becomes established ; 
or some imprudence, without actual guilt, commits the 
reputation of the wife, who, finding herself a subject of 
public scandal, to avoid encountering the reproaches or 
cold austerity of an offended husband, throws herself for 
ever outside the pale of forgiveness. 

The train of respectful admirers that used to hover 
round the steps of Lady Oriel, by degrees dropped off’. 
They became less restrained in their manner towards 
her, when they encountered her by chance. And though 
the high breeding of her tone prevented their presuming 
to treat her with the insulting familiarity which marked 
their conversation with others, there was still sufficient 

VOL. I. 12 


134 


change to prove to the initiated, that they suspected she 
was no longer entitled to the profound respect she for- 
merly deserved and obtained. ' 


CHAPTER XXV. 

“ Know, 

Without or star, or angel for their guide. 

Who worship God, shall find him. Humble love. 

And not proud reason, keeps the door to heaven ; 

I.ove finds admission, where proud Science fails.” 

We left Jim Cassidy, though somewhat loth, spend- 
ing his evenings at his own cottage, instead of, as for- 
merly, visiting the Cat and Bagpipes ; and for the first 
time of her life, Grace accepted joyfully a sacrifice, 
though she saw it was unwillingly and uncheerfully 
made. 

Hard is the fate of her who is compelled to accept of 
such, and yet be thankful that they are made ! Poor 
Grace had sensibility and delicacy enough to feel all this 
as keenly as the most refined heroine of romance, though 
she could not express it so well. 

Jim would sit in moody silence, his naturally open 
brow knit into a scowl, and his hands hanging listlessly 
over his knees ; while Grace turned her spinning-wheel 
or plied her needle. She used to try all her powers of 
conversation to amuse her husband, until she felt, in all 
its bitterness, the sentiment expressed by the French 
woman, whose irksome task it was to amuse a man, and 
a king too — that he was no longer amusable. 

“ If it wouldn’t tire you, Jim dear,” said Grace one 
evening, when she exhausted all her powers of amusing 
him, and found the effort vain, “ maybe you’d read aloud 
to me, as you used to do oncet;” and a sigh uncon- 
sciously followed the observation. 

“Sure, so I would, Grace,” replied Jim, “but the 
devil a newspaper have I ; and as for rading the ould 




135 


books we’ve read over so often, sure it tires me, and does 
me no good.” 

“Well, I won’t ax yon, Jim, if you don’t like it; but 
sure it is not half so tiresome as to be sitting doing no- 
thing at all, with the hands idle and the thoughts busy 
with vexing subjects. Nothing is such a comfort, when 
one has vexing thoughts, as to keep the hands active, and 
to try and turn the poor troubled mind to something else. 
When I feel unaisy, as often I have done of late, God 
help me ! I open the Bible which Miss Desmond (that 
was) gave me, and when I read of the troubles that others 
have had, and think that we are all born to ‘ trouble as 
the sparks fly upwards,’ it seems to me that I forget my 
own cares in pitying those I read of, though they have 
found rest long and long ago.” 

“I’d like to know what the Sogarth-*^ would say to 
you,” said Jim, “if he knew that you were reading a 
Protestant Bible; sure I see that Miss Desmond, or Mrs. 
Forrester as I ought to call her, wants to convart you by 
giving you such a book. It’s very well for her that is a 
great lady, and has got her heaven upon this earthy as 
all them rich tyrants have, to forget that there’s another 
heaven that by rights is kept for us who never enjoy this 
life, having to toil, and moil, and work, while they have 
all the fruit of our labour. But we must think of the 
heaven in the world to come, which we surely won’t get 
a place in, if we don’t mind what the Sogarth tells us, 
and he cartainly warned us not to read the Bible.” 

“Och! Jim, can you with your fine heart, bear to 
think that, bekase people are rich in this world, they 
cannot, will not enjoy heaven if they deserve it? Could 
you bear to think, that the dear, good ould masther and 
mistress, and Miss Desmond, Mrs. Forrester I mane, and 
her husband too, won’t be all in heaven, and that we 
won’t have the comfort, and a great one it will surely be, 
of seeing them there?” 

“ I mane to say, what the Priest tells me, that no one 


* Priest. 


out of our own Roman Catholic religion will be saved ; 
and as for the rich, sure the priest himself tould us all, 
and said he took it out of the Bible, that it was easier for 
a camel to enter the eye of a needle, than for a rich man 
to enter kingdom of heaven.” 

“If it’s a sin to read the Bible, why then does the priest 
read it?” asked Grace, with all a woman’s quickness; 
“and sure, if he tould you that passage, he ought to tell 
you also, that it manes that rich people are tried with so 
many more temptations than the poor, in the way of 
having the power of indulging all their fancies, that as it 
is more difficult for them, so have they more merit for 
being good, and desarving heaven, than the poor have.” 

“But what have you to say, Grace, against what the 
Sogarth tould us all? Says he, ‘Sure them that live in 
fine houses, sitting on gold chairs covered wdth silks, and 
the very walls covered with silks and satins, and pictures 
that oftentimes is’nt dacent; walking on carpets that’s 
smoother than the finest meadow in the month of May; 
ating the richest of meats off silver, and dhrinking the 
brightest of wines out of glasses that’s as clear as the 
dew on the leaves and herbs in the morning; lying on 
beds as soft as the down of the thistle, and on sheets 
wffiite as the dhriven snow, curtains falling around ’em of 
the richest colours, and not letting a breath of could air 
blow on ’em ; and when they’re tired of ating and dhrink- 
ing, and riding, and dliriving, with horses that look as if 
they, too, were come of noble fathers and mothers, they 
can hear music that goes to the very heart and can make 
one jump tor joy, or sit down and think of all them that’s 
gone till the tears come into the eyes ; they can then lie 
down on their soft beds, sure and cartain that the morn- 
ing will bring ’em back the same grandeur and pleasures 
they had the day before; and sure their sleep must be 
pleasanter than a poor man’s ; and what elegant drames 
they must have going to their soft beds, with their sto- 
machs full of such fine food of every kind. And then,’ 
says the priest, ‘would it be just or natural, that them 
that have such a heaven upon earth should have a heaven 


137 


in the other world? Sure ’twould be a crying shame if 
they had.’ ” 

“ Och ! Jim honey,” said Grace, “ what a false picture 
the priest drew ! Sure it’s a sin and wickedness to put 
envy and jealousy into the minds of the poor against the 
rich, by making ’em believe what’s not true. The grand 
people are so used to the fine gold chairs, and walls co- 
vered with silks and smooth carpets, that they don’t re- 
mark ’em as we would do ; they are always before their 
eyes, and give ’em no pleasure; and it’s only in case 
they were taken from ’em that they’d begin to think 
about ’em. The grand dinners they are mostly tired of; 
and sure enough the housekeeper at Springmount has 
tould me that the great people took more pleasure in 
plain, common things to eat, on account of the novelty, 
than in all them rich savoury dishes they have before ’em 
every day. Then, as they don’t work hard like us, they 
are seldom hungry, and they force their appetites by un- 
wholesome things, which often makes ’em sick and sor- 
rowful too, for you’ll see ten, ay twenty, grand, idle 
gentlefolks ill, for one hard-working man or woman, 
which ought to reconcile us to work. That bright wine 
too, which looks like damask roses, and clove carnation 
turned into liquor, does ’em more harm than good; and 
when they lie down on them soft beds, with their poor 
stomachs too often overloaded, or else that what they eat 
is too rich, many an hour they lie tumbling and tossing, 
more unaisy than the poorest labourer on his bed of straw, 
and throubled with night-mares and dhreams that seldom 
come near the poor man’s bed. The rich have a thousand 
vexations that we have not, ay Jim, the very best of ’em 
have their throubles ; and as they are brought up with 
everything so grand about ’em, they get into a way of 
believing everything ought to happen as they like, and 
therefore their disappointments hurts ’em more than ours 
do us ; indeed, they feel things more keenly, and take 
many things to heart that we wouldn’t understand at all. 
So you see that those, if they have more pleasures, have 
also more pains than us, for God makes everything equal, 
12 ^ 


138 


I'he rich have to think of us and for us : we depend on 
them, and sure a heavy burthen we must be to their 
minds, thinking what they can best do to make us aisy 
and comfortable. All the pleasures the rich and great 
have too, Jim dear, that seems so delightful to us, isn’t 
so to them, for they’re too well used to ’em to take much 
enjoyment in ’em, but their cares and throubles fall harder 
on ’em than on us, who are too well hardened in minds 
and bodies to fret as they do. Then, if grief comes to 
us, we haven’t time to give ourselves up to it; we’re 
obliged to work and be active, and that dh rives it away 
from us by day ; and the hard labour, by tiring us, makes 
us sleep sound by night, so that we get over it sooner. 
But the rich, who have nothing to do but to think, brood 
over their grief; and sure it’s a sorrowful sight to see 
weeping and wailing in grand rooms, with everything 
around as if they were made only for rejoicing. The 
very grandeur makes the person grieve more ; for if he 
has lost some one he loved that shared it all, it reminds 
him more and more of the loss ; and it’s a mournfulj 
thought to look around on all the beautiful things about, 
and to think of the dark, gloomy vault where those he is 
grieving for is lying; lor though them that’s gone can’t 
see or feel how dismal the vault they’re resting in is, or 
what a difference there is between it and the fine houses 
they have left, them that’s left behind often thinks of it, 
and the comparison adds to their throuble.” 

“ Why faith, Grace, you’d thry to persuade a body 
that the poor is happier than the rich ; but you won’t get 
many to believe you. Maybe you’d be for telling us 
that the masther isn’t happier than I am?” 

“ Sure, Jim dear, it’s myself that has no raison to be 
proud any way, when you, my husband, who I pass my 
life in thrying to make happy, thinks a poor ould gentle- 
man, a rich, and a grand, and rael gentleman he is to be 
sure, happier than you, a fine, comely, hearty, healthy 
boy, with a loving wife, and wanting nothing but the 
spirit of contentment, which may God give you!” 

“ Why, what does the ould masther want, Grace ? 


139 


Hasn’t he oceans of gold and the whole side of a coun- 
thry belonging to him ? Hasn’t he a good wife, though 
she is a Sassenach, and a fine beautiful daughter? What 
more would he want?” 

“ Do you forget, Jim, that he lost his son and heir, 
and never had a second ? Isn’t this a terrible grief to a 
father’s heart, when he had, as you say, oceans of gold, 
and the whole side of a counthry to give him, and an 
ould grand name, respected all round Ireland? Sure, the 
more he had to leave his son and heir, the more heavy 
must be the loss to him. When a poor man loses his 
child, though he grieves truly, he hasn’t so many differ- 
ent vexatious thoughts to make it worse as the rich man 
has ; and he thinks, ‘ Well, he’s gone to a better place, 
and is at rest from all labour for evermore !’ If he’s hard- 
worked himself, he thinks his child that’s gone to hea- 
ven is saved a life of toil and privation, and this comforts 
him. Now though the dear ould masther has the best 
daughter in all Ireland, still it is not like having a fine 
grand gentleman to stand in his father’s shoes, and keep 
up the name of Desmond. Then the masther has passed 
all his long life in doing good to all about him, and now 
that he’s an ould man, isn’t it a bitter sight for him to 
see the whole counthry forgetting his goodness, and, like 
ungrateful, unnatural children, turning against their own 
father, for such he ever has been to us all, and instead of 
listening to his good advice, and following it, to know 
that they think of nothing on earth but mischief and re- 
paling? Och ! Jim, sorry am I to say that the dear ould 
masther is not happy, and more shame to them that puts 
a thorn in his side ; for what goes ta the heart like ingra- 
titude from those we’ve been liking and serving all our 
days, as he has been sarving all the whole counthry ?” 

“ Why, Grace, you talk as if I didn’t love the ould 
masther and the family, when it’s you that’s mistaken, 
for I do.” 

“I know you ought, Jim dear, and I hope you do ; 
but it’s a quare way you take to show it, by going quite 


140 


contrary to his advice, when you and all your blood that 
came before you, has, had years and years of good ac- 
tions, and noble actions from the masther, to prove he is 
your best and only thrue friend.” 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

“ It is a busy talking world, 

That with licentious breath blows like the wind 
As freely on the palace as the cottage.” 

“ Slander meets no regard from noble minds; 

Only the base believe what the base utter.” 

So unconscious was Lady Oriel of any cause for a 
change in the manner of her friends and acquaintance, 
that she did not observe it ; but it was not lost on her 
husband, who, sensitively alive to even the shadow of 
disrespect, was wounded to the quick by it, and mentally 
blamed her severely for having given birth to such im- 
pertinence, as also still more bitterly for not perceiving 
to what she had exposed herself. Some ladies, who 
were barely tolerated in society, and whose conduct 
scarcely merited toleration, — if the cold reception they 
experienced in the few houses to which they had the 
entree could be so called, — might now be seen to ap- 
proach Lady Oriel with a confidence and ease very dif- 
ferent to the embarrassed and humbled air with which 
they formerly tried to catch her eye or court her notice. 

Each day found Lord Oriel still more cold and repul- 
sive, and his wife now almost dreaded a tete-a-tete with 
him. Lord Delmore, as he became better acquainted 
with Lady Oriel, began to question the success of which, 
at the commencement of his attentions, he entertained no 
doubt. The more he saw of her, the more he became 
convinced of the purity of her mind, and that he owed 
the favour with which he was treated, to her perfect free- 


141 


dom from suspicion that any meaner feeling than friend- 
ship urged the attentions which, he now believed, would 
be spurned with contempt, if their real motive were 
avowed. 

How many'women’s reputations have been for ever 
compromised by a belief in the friendship of men! — a 
sentiment that no woman excites in the breast of man, 
until she has lost the charms that gave birth to other and 
more passionate ones. 

The vanity of Lord Delmore, — that craving passion 
that sleeps not while aught is left to animate it, — now 
became alarmed. He counted the few weeks of the sea- 
son still remaining ere the close of the session would 
release the members from their parliamentary duties, and 
send them from London for many months. In propor- 
tion to his doubts of triumphing over the principles of 
Lady Oriel, became his anxiety d'afficher his attentions, 
and to compromise her reputation ; and with the unthink- 
ing sentimentality of most of her sex, she attributed this 
change of manner to his excited feelings at the prospect 
of their approaching separation ; and repaid it with 
increased kindness. 

In the unsuspecting purity of her heart, how often 
did she lament that Lord Oriel partook not of her friendly 
feelings for Lord Delmore; nay, she blamed the former 
as being cold and prejudiced, in withholding his appro- 
bation from one so apparently deserving it, and regretted 
this omission the more, as it precluded her extending to 
him the invitation that included a large circle of fashion 
at Oriel Park for the autumn. She had given various 
hints on the subject to Lord Oriel, but they had been 
received with such marked coldness, that she had not 
courage to persevere. 

At the commencement of the season. Lady Oriel had 
been continually asked to chaperon a daughter, sister, or 
niece, by friends who were as remarkable for the strict- 
ness of their principles and decorum, as for their eleva- 
ted positions in society. Lord Oriel had felt flattered 
that his young and lovely wife was selected to fill this 


142 


confidential situation. When forced by his pailiamentary 
duties to be absent from her, he dwelt with complacency 
on her being attended by one or two young female friends, 
and remarked with pleasure, how well satisfied the young 
ladies appeared with the manner in which Lady Oriel 
discharged the duties of a chaperon. 

But by degrees the demands on her to fulfil this ser-, 
vice fell off, and at length totally ceased ; while she, un- 
conscious of any cause for it, commented in the presence 
of her husband on the unaccountable estrangement of her 
friends, and on their confiding to others, the trust they 
had so often besought her to fill. 

The morbid sensitiveness of Lord Oriel took fresh 
alarm at what he conceived to be indications of his wife’s 
decreased estimation in the opinion of the scrupulous 
ladies in question, as also proof that she had ceased to 
merit the same respect as formerly; hence his manner 
became more cold and austere than ever, and checked 
every approach to confidential intercourse on the part of 
his wife. 

Lord Delmore noted all these changes, and noted them 
with pleasure ; for who is so egotistical and unfeeling as 
the heartless betrayer, who beholds the entanglement of 
her whom he would make his victim in the snares he 
has set for her, with the sensations of the spider watch- 
ing some hapless fly hopelessly writhing in the meshes 
of its web ? He had tried repeatedly, but tried in vain, 
to induce Lady Oriel to open her feelings to him on the 
subject of her discontent with Lord Oriel. Hints, innu- 
endoes, all were tried ; parallel cases were described by 
him, the wives pitied, and the husbands decried as un- 
worthy of such amiable victims ; but still, with the in- 
stinctive delicacy of affection. Lady Oriel shrank from 
exposing the dissatisfaction it was but too evident she 
felt; for though disappointed in her husband, she yet 
loved him too well to confess to any living creature that 
she considered herself aggrieved by him. 

This was perhaps the only prudence that now marked 
her conduct; for, though the thought of guilt was still a 


143 


stranger to her mind, scandal and slander were busy with 
her fame ; and, like many of her sex, she furnished an 
example that honour and fame are not synonymous, and 
that personal purity may be preserved when reputation, 
one of its best guardians, has been lost. 

One of the most difficult lessons to impress on the 
minds of women is, the defencelessness of fame unless 
prudence guards the outposts ; and, alas ! this lesson is 
often only acquired by the loss of that which prudence 
alone can preserve ; and she who has not violated the 
laws of virtue finds herself condemned as a criminal for 
having been only remiss in appearances, and has to weep 
over a blighted name, while the heart is still untainted. 

Lady Oriel had a feminine fondness for flowers ; and 
few days passed in which she did not drive to some flo- 
rist’s, to select plants for her conservatory or a fresh 
bouquet for the evening. Lord Dehnore knew all her 
haunts ; and, without anything like an assignation, from 
which, notwithstanding their friendship, she would have 
held back, he generally contrived to meet her on the 
road, or near the florist’s, and to give her his arm while 
walking through the nursery-grounds or hot-houses in 
search of flowers. On such occasions, they had fre- 
quently encountered many of her female acquaintances, 
whose coldness of manner and evident avoidance of them 
were too visible not to be remarked. 

Lady Oriel’s pride prevented her from commenting on 
this change to Lord Delmore ; but he failed not to draw 
her attention to it, by declaiming against the envy and 
jealousy of her sex, which induced them to show cold- 
ness to those whose beauty and powers of pleasing left 
their inferior attractions immeasurably behind. He thus 
instilled into her unsuspicious mind the injurious belief 
that beauty and talent can hope for no friends among her 
sex; and each new instance of coldness from her former 
friends was considered as an irrefragable proof of the 
truth of this dangerous doctrine. 

Lord Delmore’s saddle-horses or cabriolet were to be 
seen drawn up near Lady Oriel’s vacant carriage at the 


144 


doors of all the nursery-grounds she frequented, or the 
exhibitions or galleries she visited; and the significant 
smiles and sly looks exchanged by their fashionable ac- 
quaintances, nay, even by the servants, had she seen 
them, would have for ever humiliated the pride and deli- 
cacy of her whose unthinking imprudence, in allowing 
such a marked display of attentions, gave rise to them. 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

“Man is an embodied paradox, a bundle of contradictions; 
and as some set-off against the marvellous things that he has 
done, we might fairly adduce the monstrous things that he has 
believed. The more gross tire fraud, the more glibly will it go 
down, and the more greedily will it be swallowed, since folly 
will always find faith where imposters will find impudence.” 

“ Let me implore yon, Jim dear,” said Grace, “to go 
no more to the meetings of the Repalers. It’s my 
prayer to you, and it’s the advice of the masther.” 

“ Indeed then, Grace, I don’t see w^hat right the mas- 
ther has to be giving me his advice, just for all the world 
as if I was his slave, instead of being'his tenant.” 

“ But tell me, Jim dear, when you won’t take the ad- 
vice of a friend that has been so many years thried as 
the good masther, how come you to go headlong, as if 
you were blindfolded, at the bidding of the Repalers ?” 

“ Why, Grace, didn’t they tell me how bamboozled 
we all are? and didn’t they prove it, as clear as mud, 
that all landlords are tyrants, and all of us slaves? They 
didn’t, to be sure, say that the ould masther in particular 
was a tyrant ; but, as they said, all landlords were ; and 
sure as the masther is a landlord, he must be a tyrant, 
and it’s our duty not to follow his bidding.” 

“ Well, Jim, a cuishlamachree, only wait, and if ever 
those same Repalers that’s crying out against landlords 
now, come to pick up their crumbs, and to have broad 
lands of their own, with tenants and dependants belong- 


145 


ing to ’em, you’ll see how they’ll alter. If I was to see 
the great estated gentlemen, who have large fortunes to 
lose, advising the poor ignorant people to agitate and 
make disturbance, I might think it worth while to listen 
to them, from knowing that if the poor ould counthry 
was mint they would suffer the most, and it would make 
me think they loved freedom, as they call it, better than 
their great fortunes ; and when that’s the case, there’s 
something mighty grand in it — something that makes my 
heart swell and a could tremor run up to the roots of my 
hair, which always happens to me when I hear of any 
one doing what is grand and noble. But when I know 
it’s only a few gentlemen, followed by a pack of 
buckeens and spalpeens, who have more wind in their 
lungs than guineas in their purses, and have no fortunes 
to lose even if they ruin the poor ould counthry, sure 
then I think to myself, if these gentry didn’t do some- 
thing to make a disturbance and get themselves talked 
of, who’d ever hear they were in the world at all at all? 
and one way or other they must gain by their mischief, 
and have nothing to lose. 

“ If the Lord Leftenant takes ’em up, to stop their 
mischief,” pursued Grace, “ then they cry out they are 
parsecuted ; and well they know that even if the worst 
men are parsecuted, it makes all the people stand up for 
’em, and this gives ’em more power. If the Lord Leftenant 
lets them alone to go on with all their disturbance, then 
they say he is afraid of ’em, or wanting to make it up 
with ’em ; so, whichever way that poor English lord 
acts, they’ll find a plan to decaive him. Then you see, 
Jim, that while they’re disturbing the counthry, they 
get all they can out of the poor people ; and if they are 
brought up by the Lord Leftenant, they make a good 
bargain too ; so they are sure to gain, while we are as 
certain of losing, and this is what none of ye will open 
your eyes to see. Now as the Repalers have got used 
to be followed by mobs, and to be always talked of and 
made a fuss about, they’ll never like to sit down quiet 
and aisy again as long as they live ; so I see no chance 

VOL. I. 13 


146 


of our ever having this poor ould, throubled coimthry 
happy, unless some plain, honest-spoken people would 
take the pains to show the poor people what fools and 
tools they’re, made of to sarve the interests of a few men 
wh^ are puffed up by ambition, and who would give up 
the counthry clear and clane to sarve their own ends. 

“ Well, Jim honey, little I ever thought that I’d be 
turning my thoughts to such matthers ; nor would I, if 
I didn’t see the madness of the poor good-hearted fools 
about me ; and above all, Jim, if I didn’t see you ready 
to believe the rhaumeish of the Repalers against the 
proofs before your own eyes. — Will you tell, me, Jim, 
oncet for all, what is a tyrant ?” 

“ Sure, Grace, a tyrant is a great budoch who makes 
his tenants pay their rints to him, and thries to prevent 
’em attending ’sociations, and is always for forcing his 
advice on ’em whether they like it or no.” 

“ Och, Jim, if that’s all that a tyrant is, I don’t think 
any one need mind being called a tyrant ; faith, myself 
thought it was something terrible, and was quite vexed 
at hearing the dear ould masther called so, but now I see 
it means no harm. Was it the Repalers that tould you 
this maning of the word, Jim ?” 

“ No, Grace, it was myself ; for as this is all I ever 
saw our landlord do, and they call him tyrant, sure this 
must be the maning.” 

“ Jim a-vourneen, isn’t it a terrible thing that words, 
turned and twisted against the right maning, should have 
power to unsettle the raison of them that have more 
hearts in their bodies than brains in their heads* ’Tis 
only necessary for the Repalers to come down on your 
ears with a few high-sounding wicked names, and ye are 
all on fire, never stopping to inquire if those to whom ^ 
they give such names desarve ’em. Does not all the 
world think that a tyrant is the strongest term of reproach 
that can be given to any man in power ? and doesn’t 
even the feelings of a woman rise up in anger against it ? 
And when the Repalers use it against those that Provi- 
dence has placed over ye, are ye not worked up to mad- 


147 


ness, and ready to commit any crime against ’em ? But 
then when in cool blood ye reflect on all ye know of 
your 'landlords, and can’t find any act of cruelty or 
wickedness, ye then begin to think that the word itself 
can’t be so bad' as ye thought, merely bekase ye don’t 
find the badness in those to whom those bad names are 
tacked. Jim dear, you think that I’m tame, and too 
quiet to bear up with courage against bad usage ; you 
think that I’d be afraid of a rael tyrant, if I had the mis- 
fortune to meet with one. But you’re mistaken ; for, 
weak and feeble as I am, not all the tyrants on the earth 
could make me do what was against my own sense of 
honesty and principle ; and I’d submit with all the cou- 
rage and patience I could, to support whatever punish- 
ment they might heap on me, so as that I had the 
comfort of thinking I was doing what I believed was 
right in the sight of God, and that my conscience was 
satisfied.” 

“ Faith, Grace, the difference between you and me is, 
that the right notions or principles, as you call ’em, is 
wrote down in large letters with black ink in your mind, 
and can’t be rubbed out, but they’re only slightly marked 
with a pencil in mine, and the least thing takes ’em 
away, more’s the pity, and the sin too for me to be so 
wake. But you see asthore, no passions but gentle lov- 
ing ones come into your head, to rub against your prin- 
ciples, though I believe even if they did you would re- 
sist ; but many strong and evil passions come into mine, 
and my principles melt away before ’em like butter be- 
fore a fire, or a lump of ice in a warm hand. Besides, 
Grace, you never yet heard the greatest of the Repalers 
spake ; sure, if you did, it would make a difference. 
When that man stands up, and his wide chest seems to 
grow wider and wider, and as he spakes he grows taller 
and taller, and the'strong firm voice of him sends out the 
big wqrds in a manner so earnest, that one is plaised 
with the very sound, without examining the sense, 
(though sure there can’t be a want of sense in words 
that moves and maddens hundreds, ay, and thousands) 


148 


you’d be moved yourself, Grace a-vourneen, like me, 
and feel ready to do all he told you.” 

“ Maybe I would, Jim, for I own that there is some- 
thing very grand in hearing big thoughts, which sure is 
a gift from God, coming from the mind in big words that 
matches ’em; and if the great Repaler- turned the big 
thoughts and the big words to stamp notions of honesty, 
dacency, and respect for the laws, on the minds of those 
whom he can so easily move. I’d look on him as one 
that ought to be approached with reverence, as using the 
gift of God for the benefit of his fellow creatures. But 
at present I look on him as I would on a mountain 
stream, swollen by rains, rushing down and overpower- 
ing all that it meets in its passage, bekase its force is too 
much increased to allow it to keep in its own place. 
Instead of doing good, it destroys ; and though grand, its 
grandeur is awful and alarming, and more to be feared 
than admired.” 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 


“ Oh, God ! my wife, . 

The neai'est, dearest part of all man’s honour. 

Left a base slur to pass from mouth to mouth 
Of loose mechanics, with all coarse foul comments. 

And villanous jests, and blasphemies obscene; 

While sneering nobles, in more polish’d guise. 
Whisper’d the tale, and smiled upon the lie. ” 

Lady Oriel, with that infatuation which often accom- 
panies a consciousness of talents, was the more easily 
led to believe the assertions of her artful admirer, that 
the coldness of her female friends proceeded from envy 
and jealousy, excited by her superior attractions. This 
belief led her to assume a Jierte of manner towards them, 
which increased their animadversions on her conduct. 
They might have overlooked much greater levity in a 


149 


woman who sought to disarm their criticisms by courting 
their society; but, seeing her assume a still higher tone, 
which she did from a consciousness of her own inno- 
cence, and what she considered their inferiority, (proved 
as she imagined by their mean jealousy and envy,) they 
became still more vehement in their censures, and less 
charitable in their conclusions. 

Her select receptions onWednesdays, hitherto the very 
focus of fashion, into which all its rays were merged, 
now became “ fine by degrees, and beautifully less,” 
until the society was reduced to so limited a number, that 
it seldom amounted to more than seven or eight persons ; 
of which five were males^ and not the elite of her former 
circle, but the tolerated portion of it. Lord Oriel looked 
in occasionally on such evenings, and his face assumed 
a paler hue, and his glance more severity, when, having 
passed through the splendid suite of illuminated rooms, 
he found his lovely wife with her small, but no longer 
select, circle, of which Lord Delmore appeared the hero, 
being so far superior to the other men present, that he 
could not fail to appear to great advantage by the con- 
trast. 

The love of crowds is one of the besetting sins of the 
English of all ranks ; and this was never more clearly 
proved than in the case of Lady Oriel. Three parts of 
her guests came to her house to meet the fourth, and 
now stayed away because there was no longer a host — 

“Mocking the desert they themselves had made.” 

The few who attended, talked of some former satellite of 
Lady Oriel who had now chosen her Wednesdays; the 
new aspirant building her chance of becoming a leader 
of haut ton on the ruins of the temple of the deity hitherto 
so worshipped: and the fallen goddess discovered with 
a pang, that all her consciousness of superiority could 
not assuage the vexation she experienced in hearing the 
names of some of the most brilliant of “ those her former 

13 # 






150 


bounty fed,” as among the deserters to the camp of the 
enemy. 

It had been settled, before the attentions of Lord Del- 
more became conspicuous, that two young ladies, one 
the daughter of the Duchess of Derwent, and the other 
the heiress of the house of Heaviland, were to leave 
London with Lady Oriel, and remain with her for two 
months. Cold apologies stating a change of places, came 
from the mothers of both; and two of the most distin- 
guished of the invited male visitors, on discovering this 
defection, made their excuses. 

It was about this period that Lord Oriel, having re- 
turned from the House of Lords one night, and having 
looked into the drawing-rooms, retired by a private stair- 
case to his library to write some letters ; and while thus ^ 
occupied, was disturbed by the sounds of angry voices 
in the vestibule. He was on the point of ringing to in- 
quire the cause of the clamour, when the names of Lady 
Oriel and Lord Delmore being repeated with vehemence, 
he recognized the voice of an Irish footman, whose vio- 
lence of temper had been made known to him on a former 
occasion, but whose promises of amendment had induced ^ 
the maitre-cV hotel to intercede for his pardon. With the 
exuberance of language peculiar to his excitable country- 
men, now increased by ebriety, he proclaimed aloud his 
disbelief of the aspersions cast on the honour of his lady 
by the footman of Lord Delmore. He defied him to 
single combat, and in the true spirit of vulgar recrimina- 
tion, accused Lord Delmore of being a wily deceiver, 
who came into happy families to disturb their peace. 

In vain the footman of Lord Delmore, trembling with 
fear of punishment, apologized, explained, and urged the 
Hibernian to silence. The irascible champion, — though 
commanded to retire by the maitre-d^ hotel , — aided in the 
support of his official duties by the groom of the cham- 
bers and butler, — continued to vociferate invectives 
against Lord Delmore, mingled with vulgar an^ humili- 
ating defences for his Lady, until he was dragged from 
the vestibule by the other servants, lest the noise should 


•I 


S ; 


151 


be heard in the drawing-rooms ; where they supposed 
their Lord as well as Lady to be. 

As the most clear and sparkling water cannot pass 
through an impure vessel without being sullied, so the 
reputation of a woman cannot be made the subject of 
menial conversation without losing its original purity. 
Vulgar and uneducated minds are incapable of judging 
their superiors. The fine gradations, and almost imper- 
ceptible lines of demarcation, between apparent error and 
actual guilt, are altogether invisible to them. A sympa- 
thy of habits and feelings renders persons of equal station 
capable of appreciating motives and drawing conclusions 
from circumstances which the coarse-minded and igno- 
rant cannot comprehend; who, judging from self, the 
only criterion known to them, hesitate not to attribute 
guilt where indiscretion alone exists. The utmost malice 
of the refined never extended to one-half the length in its 
conclusions, to which servants, without any malice, con- 
tinually go in theirs ; and many a high-born and innocent 
woman has been by her domestics believed capable of 
actions, the bare suspicion of which would have filled 
her with dismay and horror. But they had deduced 
their opinions wholly from the laxity of their own moral 
feelings, without any malice towards her. 

Little did the noble-minded, delicate Lady Oriel ima- 
gine, that the indiscreet intimacy which she had allowed 
to subsist between herself and Lord Delmore, had become 
for weeks the subject of a thousand gross pleasantries, 
hinis, and innuendoes, among the lower servants in their 
respective establishments. Her name had become fami- 
liar in their rude mouths, her husband’s a jest, and her 
supposed lover was considered by them as a monstrous 
clever fellow, who knew what he was about. The 
upper servants, more reserved, though equally suspicious, 
expressed not what they thought ; but, contented them- 
selves with narrowly observing and internally comment- 
ing on all that they observed, wondering at the courage 
of their lady, who took no pains to conceal the intimacy, 
as though site had never attached any idea of impropriety 


152 


to it. But the cordiality of her accueil to Lord Delmore, 
and the frequency of his visits, confirmed them in the 
most erroneous and injurious conclusions ; while she, 
unsuspecting and pure-minded, dreamed not of the dis- 
honourable and odious light in which she was viewed by 
them. 

What the feelings of Lord Oriel were, on hearing the 
degrading defence, and the accusations that led to it, is 
more easily imagined than described. He became for a 
few minutes transfixed, as it were, to the spot ; a tremor 
shook his limbs ; and anger, pride, and deeply-wounded 
delicacy, strove for mastery in his breast. A few mo- 
ments’ rejection induced him to steal softly from the 
library ; having previously arranged the papers on the 
table, and extinguished the light, so as not to have it ima- 
gined that he had been there. He ascended his private 
staircase with noiseless step, and it was a relief to him 
to hear the sounds of music proceeding from the draw- 
ing-room,— -though they ill accorded with his present 
feelings, — as it convinced him that the clamour in the 
vestibule had not been heard in the salons. He turned 
from the sounds, and sought the privacy of his dressing- 
room, to brood over the “ food^ibr meditation even to 
madness,” which the scene he had overheard had engen- 
dered. 

Bitter were the pangs that shot through his heart, 
when he thought of his beautiful and worshipped Louisa 
as the subject of the comments and calumnies of servants. 
How did she appear shorn of her beams, and her purity 
blotted by what he had heard ! The stain on his own 
personal honour, — and few could be so sensitively alive 
to such a stain as was this high-born and high-bred aris- 
tocrat, — seemed even less shocking to him than the de- 
gradation of her he so loved and honoured. Anger rose 
to repel the blow aimed at his respectability ; but tears, 
of almost- feminine softness, wept the insult that was 
heaped on her he would have died to shield, even from 
a glance of disrespect ; and whose fair fame, now blurred 
over by the tongues of vile menials, he could not vindi- 




153 


cate or avenge. How did he wish, with the passionate 
affliction of a high mind unaccustomed to give way to 
violence, that the accuser and defender of his wife were 
of a rank which could enable him to meet them in the 
field, where their lives should atone for their accursed 
profanation, or his own death release him from the agony 
it had entailed upon him ! 

At one moment, he thought of opening tlie eyes of his 
wife, as he felt the absolute necessity of at once putting 
an end to her acquaintance with Lord Delmore ; but the 
next, found him shrinking with disgust at the idea of her 
humiliation at the disclosure, and the dread that, with 
her keen sense of pride, this humiliation would chase 
away for ever all softer and warmer feelings towards him. 
Lord Oriel never for a moment doubted the actual inno- 
cence of his wife ; but he had often, and sorely, felt her 
want of retenue in her liaison with Lord Delmore, and 
the impropriety of a married woman forming any friend- 
ships with men, of which her husband was not the col- 
lecting link or medium. 

With an agitated mind and feverish body, he acknow- 
ledged the impossibility of encountering Lady Oriel until 
he had come to some final decision. His ideas were in 
a chaos ; he seized his pen to write to her, but threw it 
away in despair at the first few incoherent words it 
traced. Never had he written to her before except with 
a heart overflowing with love and afiection. But now 
— what a change ! A thousand bitter, but tender emo- 
tions overwhelmed him as he looked back on the past. 
The lovely and trusting bride, who had preferred him to 
all others, was present to his imagination ; the charms 
of infancy in her person scarcely rivalled by those of 
v/omanhood ; and then “ the wife still dearer than the 
bride,” the fond, the happy, confiding partner of his hap- 
piest days, stood before him in all her beauty. The 
present, the fearful present, was for a few minutes for- 
gotten in the past. 

But soon came back the bitter recollection, and with 
it the reproachful question, how had he fulfilled his du- 


154 


ties to the lovely object confided to his care ? Had he 
warned her before danger found her? or had he shielded 
or advised her when it had ? Alas ! no ; he owned with 
mortal anguish that he left her in the path of danger ; 
from which, though she might escape with an unsullied ^ 
person, she could not bear away an unspotted reputation. 

All this his guilty neglect now struck him with keen 
self-reproach; but such was the devoledness of his love, 
that it was a relief to him to accumulate blame on him- 
self, that a less portion might fall on her ; and he felt 
that she had more right to upbraid him than he had to 
censure her. ' 

Let no one say that true affection is egotistical, be- 
cause a few pretenders to love- are selfish. No; ego- 
tism proves at once the absence of love. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

The flying rumours gather’d as they roll’d ; 

Scarce any tale was sooner heard or told ; 

And all who told it added something new. 

And all who heard it made enlargement too ^ 

In every ear it spread, on every tongue it grew.” 

Lord Oriel passed the night in feverish slumbers, re- 
clining in a bergere ; and was awakened by the shrill 
tones of Mademoiselle La Tour, the femme de chambre ^ 
of his wife, who was in the dressing-room of her mis- 
tress, with which his room communicated. La Tour, 
between occasional sobs and angry tirades against Mon- 
sieur Henri, le valet de pied de Milord Delmore, and 
with the brusquerie and want of tact that is a distinguish- 
ing characteristic in her countrywomen of that class, 
when once their anger is excited, stated, that, certaine- 
ment ce vilain Henri did say to Monsieur Jacques, le 
valet de pied de Miladi, que^Milord Delmore est Vamant 
de Miladi. Imaginez vous, miladi, quelle horreurl et 
malgre queje rCen crois rien, c'est toujours bien desa- 






155 


greable pouf nous fous,^^ including, with a true French 
feeling of equality, herself with her lady in the Nous 
tons. 

Her volubility met with no check, until a slight noise, 
and an exclamation of mon JDieu! elle se trouve 

mair^ made Lord Oriel forget all but that the person 
dearest to him on earth was suffering. He rushed into 
the room, and found Lady Oriel extended on her chaise 
longue, and to all appearance dead. Her face had all the 
rigidity and snowy whiteness of marble ; her dark eye- 
lashes, resting on those pale cheeks, gave them a still 
more death-like aspect; her raven hair fell in wild disor- 
der over her figure, rendering it more touching; and the 
total prostration of moral and physical force which her 
whole appearance betrayed, showed the violence of the 
shock that had subdued her. 

To bathe her temples, to apply pungent odours to her 
nostrils, and to chafe her icy hands within his own, were 
the work of a moment ; but it was many minutes ere re- 
turning animation repaid the anxious and agitated hus- 
band’s cares. During which time, with the usual bustling 
helplessness of those of her country and station. La Tour 
wept, scolded, and bemoaned her destiny ; by turns re- 
commending un peu (Teau de Cologne sur de sucre — 
une goutte de fieur d* orange dans l\au — une tasse de 
tilleul, avec une cuilleree de syrup de violettes; and, 
having exhausted her catalogue of a French-woman’s re- 
medies in all similar cases, without Lord Oriel’s showing 
any desire of trying their efficacy, she murmured to her- 
self, taking care that it should not be loud enough to be 
heard by him, ^^Mon Dieul mon Dieu! commences An- 
glais sont betes et entetesT^ 

A slight tinge of rose on the pale cheeks, and a deep 
sigh, marked Lady Oriel’s return to life and conscious- 
ness. She opened her languid eyes, and seeing her hus- 
band tenderly occupied about her, closed them with a 
shudder that threatened a renewal of the attack. He 
addressed her by the fondest terms of endearment ; dis- 
guising all his own misery in the hope of alleviating what 


156 


he knew she must feel. Having dismissed La Tour, who 
unwillingly and sulkily departed, he succeeded in restor- 
ing Lady Oriel to something like a state of calmness ; 
though the wild glance that first shrank from his when 
she opened her eyes, was now exchanged for the expres- 
sion of mute, hopeless, and fixed despair. She suffered 
his attentions with an air of deep humility, as though she 
felt she was no longer worthy of them ; and his manly 
heart bled for her, when he witnessed the mental anguish 
that was expressed in every look. 

Lady Oriel believed that her husband was still ignorant 
of the cause of her sudden indisposition; and the tender- 
ness of his manner, so unlike the cold constraint that had 
marked it for the last few months, awakened the deep 
love that had lately slumbered in her breast, but which 
had only slumbered to awaken with renewed force. But 
at what a moment did it awaken ! Her indiscretion had 
brought dishonour on his name, had been the cause of 
the alienation of friends, the coldness of acquaintances ! 
All — all was now revealed to her; and she was dismayed 
when the fearful reality of her |)osition was exposed to 
the scrutiny of her alarmed, too lately alarmed, sen- 
sitiveness. 

How did this favourite of fortune, blessed with all that 
can render life desirable, now wish that the grave should 
hide her repentance and her shame ! — Alas ! we seldom 
think of death, until life is embittered by our errors, and 
when we are least fit to encounter it ! Lady Oriel dared 
not contemplate the probable results of her conduct, and 
yet she dreaded the results less than she execrated the 
cause ; for she now saw the unthinking folly of her per- 
severance in permitting attentions which the coldness of 
her husband’s manner had proved that he condemned. 

Lord Oriel’s delicacy and forbearance now presented 
themselves to her in brilliant colours, and in proportion 
to her admiration of them became her self-condemnation. 
Pride, that arch enemy, which avenges itself unmerci- 
fully when we err, yet cannot preserve us from erring, 
was up in arms in her breast, to oppose the flood of ten- 


157 


derness and deep sense of humiliation which threatened 
to overpower it. At one moment, she thought of pro- 
posing to Lord Oriel to retire to the country, to the con- 
tinent, anywhere, to escape from the scene of her present 
degradation; hoping that he might be kept in ignorance 
of the reports to her disadvantage, for that such reports 
were in general circulation, she no longer allowed her- 
self to doubt. The next moment, she determined to 
avow all to Lord Oriel, to throw herself on his tender- 
ness and mercy, and to pass the rest of her life in en- 
deavouring to atone for her faults. 

She requested Lord Oriel to leave her to a few hours’ 
repose; though of even this temporary blessing, she felt 
she had at the present crisis but little hope. When con- 
signed to the solitude of her chamber, she communed 
with her own heart; and, while tears of contrition and 
despair fell over her paper, she communicated to him the 
result of her reflections, in the following letter : — 

“How shall I address you, most beloved and most in- 
jured of men? how find courage to tell you, that my 
levity and fatal indiscretion have brought blight and dis- 
honourable suspicion on your name? that name never 
before sullied by the searching breath of scandal — that 
noble name which you gave to me with confidence, and 
in which I gloried! You — you alone, understand me, 
and can believe that, though exposed to suspicion, I am 
incapable of guilt. Think of the bitterness of heart with 
which I avow this, and knowing that in public opinion I 
am dishonoured, I still live, and live to wound your peace 
with this fatal avowal. Friends have fallen off from me ; 
acquaintances have deserted me ; and you, too, whom I 
have so cruelly injured — your kindness and forbearance 
rises up in judgment to add to the misery I feel, when I 
reflect that I have brought your spotless name even to 
be the topic of your own menials. 

“ Why, oh I why did a false pride prevent me from 
seeking the cause of the coldness that has for the last 
few months marked your manner towards me? All 

VOL. I. 14 


158 


would have then been explained, and this wretchedness 
would have been spared me. But no ; I shut my eyes 
to the danger that menaced me, and, never dreaming of 
crime, disgrace has overtaken me. My own dishonour 
I might bear, supported by the consciousness of inno- 
cence ; but to draw shame on you ! no — that I cannot 
bear and live. We must separate, though despair is in 
the thought ; but never shall it be said that you were the 
dupe of her whom you so loved and trusted. My inno- 
cence can never be made manifest to the world; and 
while it is doubted — nay, more than doubted — can I 
suffer you to be pointed at by the finger of scorn for 
sheltering one who has, in losing her good name, for- 
feited all right to such a boon ? I will retire to some 
solitary place, where a life of the most circumspect pru- 
dence shall at least preclude the possibility of future 
scandal, though it cannot atone for past indiscretion.— 
Try to forget and pardon me. 

“ Little did I think, a short time ago, that I should 
ever have to ask you to do either ! — But let me not dwell 
on the past, or how shall I bear the present ? I dare no 
longer give expression to an affection that must appear 
suspicious, if not worthless, when it could not preserve 
her who professes it from the cruel necessity of signing 
herself 

“ Your unworthy wife, 

“ Louisa Oriel.” 

Various and agitating were the feelings and thoughts 
which passed through the mind of Lord Oriel during the 
hours of seclusion which succeeded his departure from 
his wife’s dressing-room^. He never for a moment con- 
templated the idea of a separation from her ; though the 
vulnerable part of his character, extreme pride, was 
painfully wounded by his anticipations of all that would 
be said and thought of his continuing to live with a wife 
whose reputation was so tarnished. 

But love, at length, triumphed over every other feel- 
ing in Lord Oriel’s heart, and he awaited with fear and 


159 


trembling the next interview with his wife ; on which 
he felt hung the peace of his future life, because on her 
conduct on this trying occasion depended his esteem. 

“ Now,” thought Lord Oriel, “ is the crisis of my fate. 
If she, believing that I am ignorant of it, conceals her 
position, how can I esteem her again ? and yet, so natu- 
rally proud is her spirit, if she humiliate herself too 
deeply, may I not lose her affection in her own too vivid 
consciousness of her self-abasement 

Her letter was brought to him while all these reflec- 
tions were passing in his mind ; and in the various sen- 
timents of love, admiration and pity every line of it 
excited, he forgot all, but the certainty it conveyed that 
her attachment was undiminished and the purity of her 
mind unimpaired. The opinion of the world faded 
away before the tenderness with which his heart over- 
flowed ; and when he sought Lady Oriel, the timidity of 
a lover was more evident in his manner, than the for- 
giveness of a husband. His arguments and reasoning 
were too flattering to her love and pride to be resisted. 
She felt that a separation from him would steep her future 
years in misery ; but she shrank in dismay at the 
thought, that when the excitement of the moment was 
over, he might quail before the strictures of the clique, 
whose fiats had hitherto had so much influence on his 
mind, and regret the sacrifice to affection that he was 
now making. 

Dearly has that woman expiated her errors, when she 
feels that the protection a husband affords her, may sub- 
ject him to the contumely Of the world ! This dread was 
rooted in the sensitive heart of Lady Oriel, never again 
to depart ; but it lent new charms to her manner to- 
wards him ; and the gentleness, the beseeching love that 
each look and action displayed, originating in the self- 
reproach and humiliation which preyed on her health 
and peace, only rendered her, both mentally and per- 
sonally, more exquisitely interesting. 

Mingled tears, mutual self-reproaches, and renewed 
fondness, marked the reconciliation of Lord and Lady 


160 


Oriel ; they vowed to be all the world to each other, as 
in the first days of their married life ; when in the happy 
seclusion of Oriel Park, they wished never to leave it. 
They thought not then of the world, because they feared 
it not ; and their indifference was a triumphant proof of 
their affection, because that world held forth to them all 
its smiles. But now, both shrank from its powers, for 
both had learned to dread them. It was no longer an 
admiring but a censuring world from which they were 
secluding themselves ; and bitter were the secret thoughts 
of each, as they reflected, that while returning to the 
path of duty, and devoting themselves to domestic life, 
they were drawing down the sarcasms of that world 
which they had not yet learned to estimate at its, just 
price. 

In trying to assuage their mutual feelings, each be- 
came continually aware of the futility of the effort. In 
praising retirement, they were conscious of the weighty 
motives both had to seek it ; and their delicacy taking 
the alarm, mutual constraint ensued. 

Ma’m’selle La Tour was discharged with ^ liberal 
present ; the whole establishment was dismissed, with 
generous remunerations for their'services ; and Lord and 
Lady Oriel commenced their tour to the Lakes, more 
devoted than ever to each other ; but the very excess of 
that devotion produced increased sensitiveness, and 
dread of the future. 

Had Lord Oriel possessed strength of mind in pro- 
portion to his pride and tenderness of heart, happiness 
might again have dawned on them ; but, alas ! he was 
infirm of purpose, and, though not prepared to sacrifice 
his love to the world, he was nearly equally unprepared 
to confront that world in the discharge of conscious 
duties, while he thought his actions likely to be misin- 
terpreted, or the finger of scorn -pointed at his name. 
He had too much and too little pride ; too much to be 
satisfied with aught less than the world’s applause, and 
too little to be able to bear up against its tyranny and 
injustice. 


161 


Lady Oriel had failed to make this discovery in hap- 
pier times ; but it now came home to her bosom, mak- 
ing her dread the present, and tremble for the future, as 
she saw that the world, the fickle capricious world, 
which she had neither the courage nor the wish to re- 
conquer, still held an empire over the mind of her hus- 
band, which would render happiness, independent of its 
opinion, difficult if not impossible to attain. 

It has been well observed by an acute writer of our 
day, “ that to be satisfied with the acquittal of the world, 
though accompanied with the secret condemnation of 
conscience, is the mark of a little mind ; but that it re- 
quires a soul of no common stamp to be satisfied with its 
own acquittal, and to despise the condemnation of the 
world.” The insufficiency of self-acquittal to satisfy the 
mind, must proceed from the consciousness that, how- 
ever innocent in fact, we have been faulty in appearance ; 
unjust as the world is, it can seldom wound us if we do 
not furnish it with weapons. The world exaggerates, 
and misinterprets, but rarely invents. We must lay a 
foundatiqn ere it can build ; but when once we have 
furnished it, there is no saying to what height the edifice 
will extend ; and she who has committed one fault, must 
expect to be accused of a hundred crimes. 

“ Ce n'est que le premier pas qui coute,^^ In the life 
of a woman, one false step that cannot be disproved, 
renders every future step suspected; and the heart- 
wounding conviction of this injustice takes away the 
confidence of virtue, even long after its duties have been 
fulfilled. 


14 ^ 


162 


CHAPTER XXX. 

“ Our decrees, 

Dead to infliction, to themselves are dead ; 

And liberty plucks justice. by the nose.’* 

“Some for renown, on scraps of learning dote, 

And think they grow immortal as they quote.** 

Jim Cassidy returned from his work one evening, 
bringing with him the schoolmaster of the village, whom 
he had encountered on the road, and engaged to share 
his humble supper. 

Grace felt that he did this to avoid a tete-a-tete with 
her, and sighed as she thought of other days, when Jim 
would have considered such an interruption on their 
privacy a hardship. 

The schoolmaster was a simple, honest man, only 
remarkable for a habit of interlarding his discourse with 
scraps of Latin, even when addressing those totally ig- 
norant of that language, which habit generally left his 
hearers in doubt as to one-half of his conversation, and 
not quite au fait of the other. 

They were about to sit down to supper, when Larry 
]Vl‘Swigger made an addition to the party, and was cor- 
dially greeted by all. 

“ I hn afraid you don’t like the supper,” said Jim, ob- 
serving that the schoolmaster was more intent on looking 
around him than on eating. 

“ Why, to spake the truth, Misther Cassidy,” replied 
the pedagogue, “I am admiring domus et "placemuxorP 

“ I see how it is,” said Larry, with an arch smile. 
“ You were looking at Misthress Cassidy, and by speak- 
ing Latin, show that it was something she ought not to 
hear. Far be it from me to say, even in a dead language, 
what could offend a living ear, and that ear, moreover, 
attached to the head of a female.” 


163 


“ No, Misther M‘Swigger, I was thinking, on looking 
around me, that fas est et ab hoste doceri, as I remark 
many clever contrivances in this culinary apartment, 
which Misthress Cassidy must have taken from the 
English.’’ 

“ Why, then, by my soul, if you knew her as well 
as I do, ever since she was a brat of a girl, and before 
too, you ’d never be after suspecting her of taking any- 
thing from the English, or any one else, but what was 
her right.” 

“ You misconceive my maning, Misther M‘Swiggan.” 

“ Well, all my mistakes come from your spaking the 
Greek, which as neither the good man nor woman of the 
house understand any more than I do, it bothers us a 
little, and puts us at cross purposes. Sure, it’s no of- 
fence I mane to you, for I used just to say the same to 
a Frenchman on board the ship with me, going to the 
West Indies, who was always for jabbering his out- 
landish lingo to me. ‘ Sir,’ says I, ‘ if as how you’re 
inclined to swap thoughts with me, take your choice of 
spaking Irish or English, which you’ll find come just 
as aisy to you, as having to conster my words into your 
own mother tongue, which I suspect you’ll be obliged 
to do before you know the maning.’ He shook his head, 
and said, ‘ Bait.’ ‘ Bait !’ says I ; ‘ faith, that’s a game 
two can play at, and if I had you in my own sweet 
counthry, where baiting is chaip. I’d see what you were 
made of.’ Sure, he knew well enough what I was after, 
for he looked as mad as a March hare, and after that we 
never swapped a word while we stopped in the ship.” 

“I think, Misther Cassidy, that your friend has a 
cacoethes loquendi,’^ observed the schoolmaster. 

“ I hope you haven’t said anything affronting to me,” 
said Larry; “ for ould as I am, I wouldn’t sit by to see 
myself attacked ; and, sure, if you have anything to say 
to me, spake out in plain English or Irish, and don’t be 
like a backbiter, saying what’s not fair when my back 
is turned, for sure it’s all one as being absent when I 
don’t know what you say of me,” 


164 


“ I declare to you, Misther M‘Swigger, that I have 
said nothing offensive, I am not disposed to quarrel, 
being, as you must observe, the caput mortuum of a 
sexagenarian.” 

“Well, there’s more of it,” said Larry. “Follow 
on, my ould boy, for I see it’s useless to thry to stop 
you once you’ve got floundering in your bog Latin.” 

“ Misther M‘Swigger, if you main to insult the eru- 
dition of which I am but as the mouthpiece, I ’d have 
you to know that contra stimulum calcas'^ 

“You see, Misther and Misthress Cassidy, he will 
keep throwing his bad words in my teeth ; for, sure, as 
I said before, if they are not bad, why not say ’em out 
like a man, instead of disguising ’em in clothes, as he 
says himself, which I can’t make head or tail of?” 

“ I repate, Misther M‘Swigger,” replied the peda- 
gogue, “ that I do not wish to offend ; of this you have 
only my ipse dixit^ which I hope you will accept.” 

“ Och ! sure, if you’re tipsy, it’s another matther,” 
said Larry. “ Why didn’t you say so at first? though, 
faith, I thought you looked a little conflusthered, and 
seemed dumbfounded by spaking Greek and Latin to us 
all the evening, just to show your book-larning.” 

The schoolmaster felt by no means inclined to allow 
Larry M‘Swigger to continue in the belief that he 
pleaded inebriation as an excuse for whatever he might 
have said, and Grace was obliged to interfere, to bring 
them to a good understanding; which having accom- 
plished, the schoolmaster declared that he must proceed 
to the Cat and Bagpipes, for the purpose of exhorting 
the men there assembled, and of opening their eyes to 
the danger of the evil courses they were at present pur* 
suing. 

“ Faith,” said Larry, “ if you main to do that, I’d 
advise you to stick to the plain English, or, what’sbetther 
still, the Irish tongue, which is ten times as expressive, 
— then they’ll know your maning; but if you bother 
’em with the Greek and Latin, faith, you might just as 


165 


well be whistling jigs to a milestone, in the hopes of 
making it dance.” 

“ I have already arranged the discourse I main to give 
them,” said the pedagogue. “ I have no doubt it will 
produce a powerful effect on their unsophisticated under- 
standings,” 

“ Don’t be too sure of that,” said Larry. “ Sure, 
they’re already too much fisticated, as you call it, for it’s 
a word and a blow with ’em on every occasion, and the 
blow first and the word afther. Sure, it would be well 
for many of ’em that they had no fists, for they do 
nothing but mischief with ’em ; but if you’re going, I’ll 
just go with you, and maybe tell you what you had best 
say to ’em.” 

“ Csecus iter monstrare vult^'' murmured the school- 
master. 

“ There he is at it again,” said Larry. “ I’m no more 
a monsther than yourself, and it is not over-mannerly of 
you to call me so.” 

“ I per^aive that if we continue to talk,” said the 
schoolmaster, it will be a helium internecivum be- 
tween us ; but let us proceed to the Cat and Bagpipes, 
Mister M‘Swigger. I shall be proud of your company 
on the way, for comes jucundus in via pro vehiculo 
estJ'' 

Jim Cassidy accompanied them to the scene of meet- 
ing, promising Grace that he would retire from it as 
soon as the schoolmaster had finished his speech to ’em. 
“ For I’m curious,” added Jim, “ to see how they’ll 
take advice in Latin, which they can’t understand, when 
they won’t listen, or at least won’t mind, what’s said to 
them in their own tongue ; perhaps, for the raison that 
they can’t understand, they’ll pay more attention to it, 
for, somehow or other, we poor Irish are a little con- 
trary whin we’ve got a quare notion in our heads.” 

Grace smiled at the truth of the last observation, and 
the three friends departed. 

On reaching the sheebean-house, sounds of merriment 
and singing, with loud applauses, proclaimed that there 


166 


was a full meeting, and they entered in time to hear the 
following song sung, or rather roared, by Bill Davin, 
better known by the appellation of “ Rattling Bill,” each 
verse of which elicited thunders of applause. 

SONG. 

Sure, an’t we all slaves in the chains 
We’ve taken such trouble to get ? 

Oiild England’s the cause of our pains, 

But she’ll suffer the penalty yet. 

We’ll drive all the rich from the land, 

And set up the poor in their stead ; 

By O’Blarney we’ll all of us stand, 

By O’Blarney we’ll only be led. 

For he is the broth of a boy ; 

How to get up a row he knows well ; 

In Parliament, sure, ’tis his joy 

To bother their brains all pell-mell. 

We tried long enough with troubles 
The English to vex and enrage ; 

They thought our riots but bubbles. 

Till they found we’d open war wage. 

Boys ! drink to the great agitator. 

And long may he rule o’er the land. 

For he is the only dictator, 

And by him till death will we stand. 

The vociferous plaudits that followed the song had no 
sooner subsided, than the schoolmaster asked permission 
to address the meeting, which was accorded by some of 
the assembly and refused by others. At length, how- 
ever, it was decided that he should be heard. “We. 
know he’s an ould tory,” said Rattling Bill, “ but what 
of that? Hear him, hear him, say I and it was accord- 
ingly agreed that he should be heard. 

“ Neighbours and pupils, for many of you are my 
pupils,” said the schoolmaster, “ I am come here 
amongst you, like a brutum fulmen, to arouse you to 
the dangers that threaten you. Led on by a man who 


167 


is ever seeking the aura popularis, you will pass the 
Rubicon, after which there is no retreat. He is deter- 
mined] to be aut Caesar aut nullust and to arrive at the 
former, he will make you the pedestal on which he will 
elevate himself. But remember, in doing this, he tram- 
ples on you ; you but support his feet. He is a man who 
only uses arguments ad captandum vulgus^ and is emi- 
nently skilled to amhiguas in vulgum spargere voces. 
But you, my countrymen, who are adscriptus glehae, 
must never forget the proverb, An nescis longas regibus 
esse manus ? I would prove to you that which is so 
rare, an amicus certus in re incertd cernitur. Listen 
to me, therefore, not only with your ears, but your 
hearts, for if the ear hears and the heart heeds not, all 
arguments are vain. 

“lam actuated by an amor patriae^ and would oppose 
my feeble voice against him who proves the verity of the old 
adage, asperius nihil est humili cum surgit in altum. I 
would call it dulce et decorum est pro patria mori, but 
to be sacrificed on the altar of ambition for the aggran- 
disement of one man — no, this I could not bear. This 
man has established the system of divide et impera, and 
takes advantage of the power it gives him ; he considers 
you all but as the faex populi, to be thrown to the winds 
the moment he has used you. But before yac/« est alea, 
reflect on the inevitable consequences of following his 
pernicious counsels, and remember that gravis ira regum 
semper. Poor and lowly as I am, I have incoctum gene- 
roso pectus honesto, and I would die sooner than be as 
those who iras et verba locant." 

“ Hear, hear, hear him,” was repeated aloud ; “ sure 
what he says must be fine, for we can’t understand the 
half of it. He baits out O’Blarney by three chalks. 
Faith, the ould boy is a grand scholar any way.” 

Larry M‘Swigger was mortified with the success of 
the schoolmaster, and still more at the folly of his coun- 
trymen for applauding, merely because they could not 
understand. Poor Larry, with all his shrewdness, was 
too simple to be aware how many orators and literary 


168 


works are judged of and approved on the same principle, 
and with this ignorance he thought to himself — “ Well, 
after such applause, the ould boy will spake more Greek 
and Latin than ever, and there’ll be no bearing with him. 
Now, if I was to spake plain sinse to ’em in plain Eng- 
lish, it’s ten to one if they’d listen to me, and more than 
ten to one if they’d give a single screech for me. But 
this comes of his book laming. Sure after all, it’s a 
great help at a pinch, especially when it taches a body 
to spake with the thoughts and words of another, and no 
one can contradict it.” 

When order was restored, the schoolmaster resumed 
his speech ; “ Think not, my countrymen, that I am in- 
sensible to the misfortunes under which this divided 
country has groaned for centuries. Alas ! longa est in'- 
juria, longse ambages. But it is not by proving that we 
are unworthy of liberty, that we can hope to gain it.^ 
As well might the maniac try to persuade his keeper that 
he requires not the fetters that alone prevent his injuring 
himself and others, as for ns to expect that government 
will grant us the rights we forfeit by our own violation 
of the laws. I can have no object but the amor patrise, 
which throbs in my heart, for urging you to beware of 
evil advisers, whilst he who inflames your passions has 
twelve thousand golden reasons for keeping up the heat 
of that mint that pays his agitation. But cursed is the 
gold that is earned by the misery of the people, and 
shameless must he be, who, while he declaims on the 
poverty and ruin of his country, accepts from that po- 
verty and ruin the hire of acts that, if performed with 
sincere good-will for his country, he ought to be above 
receiving pay for, and if not, what shall be said of him? 

“ Paid patriots, my countrymen, are anomalies that I 
admit not of ; I will believe him to be a patriot who strug- 
gles against poverty and oppression, and disdains to ac- 
cept wages for services that never can, never ought to 
be paid. Of him who does otherwise it may be said, 
vendidit hie auro patriam ; for what difference does it 


169 


make that the gold comes from the sold ? the chapman 
equally receives it. 

“ I would exhort you to pause and reflect. Return to 
your duties, and ut ameris amabilis esto. Show that 
you can be trusted, and you will be trusted. Show that 
you know how to respect the laws, and you will not long 
be exposed io know them by their severity, instead of 
by their protection. Nunquam libertas gratior extat 
quam sub rege pio. And when did a monarch sit on a 
throne more worthy to be so considered than ours ? Let 
us not, my dear countrymen, force him to show us his 
power instead of his paternal love, nor compel him to 
give us the ultima ratio regum. Leave our grievances 
to be remedied by those who have the inclination to re- 
lieve, and the knowledge how to accomplish it; but 
attend not to him who, if we have wounds, puts an 
unguis in ulcere.^' 

“ Faith, the ould boy is right,” said one. “ The ould 
scholar is no fool,” said another. “ Sure how could he 
be a fool with such fine laming as he has in his head?” 
interrogated a third. “ If I had only the half of it, Fd 
speechify as well as the best of ’em, but when a body 
has only one’s thoughts in one’s pate, sure how can one 
make a speech ?” 

Rattling Bill was the first to-address the schoolmaster^ 
which he did in the following terms : — “ Well, ould boy, 
you have been chopping Latin for some time, and we’ve 
listened to you for all the world as if you were a prophet, 
though small profit it has brought us any way, for we 
didn’t understand the half of it. So much the betther, 
perhaps, for I see by the drift of your shanahos, you’d 
be for thrying to persuade us to remain quiet till them 
English fitted on our handcuffs. Now, I’m of the same 
mind as O’Blarney, that the only way to avoid danger, 
is to meet it halfway, and sure we’ve been more than 
half way on the road to meet it, and now is not the time 
to turn our backs on ourselves. And let me ax you, 
what would we do to pass the time, if we didn’t kick up 
a bit of a row ? Sure it’s the only occupation we have, 

VOL. I. 15 


170 


and if we like to give our money to him that divarts us, 
and keeps us always warm with the fiery things he puts 
into our minds, that’s our own affair. Sure, I’ve heard 
that the grandees find time so dull on their hands, that 
they pay lashings of money to play-actors to agitate ’em, 
either by making ’em laugh or cry ^ and w^hy shouldn’t 
we pay our own play-actor, who can do botli, and pre- 
vents our ever bothering ourselves about thinking of pay- 
ing rints or tithes, or providing for the wives and brats 
at home, which we used to be breaking our heads and 
hearts too, to prepare for? No, no, O’Blarney has 
taught us a trick w^orth two of that, and I’m for sticking 
by him let what will happen. When I think how, be- 
fore I knew O’Blarney, I used to be bothering the life 
out of myself, sure, faith I laugh at my folly ; for now 
when the agent talks to me of the next gale of rent, I 
think that maybe there’ll be another sort of a gale before 
that comes, that will blow away rents, landlords, and 
agents too, and lave us, like the wreclters on the shore, 
to pick up whatever escapes from the ship that has pe- 
rished ; so you’ll find we’ll have the best of it.” 

“ But when you see the soldiers and the police pour- 
ing down on us like a mountain floud, sweeping every- 
thing before ’em,” said an old man who had not before 
spoken, what will you say then ? when our wives and 
children are starving and unprotected, and ourselves be- 
tween four walls in a stone jugT* where we may be found 
morning, noon, and night, and obliged to stand our trials 
for all the troubles we’ve brought on the country, sure. 
Bill, you’ll wish you had hearkened to the schoolmaster’s 
advice, and if you’re transported to Botany Bay, or are 
condemned to dance a jig upon nothing, ’twill then be 
too- late to repent. Think of the judge putting on the 
black cap — think of the terrible words he will spake, the 
solemn faces of all the court, and the wail of the heart- 
broken wife ; and then ax yourself how much better it 
would be to stop in time. Think also of the terrible 


An Irish phrase for jail. 


171 


night in the condemned cell — the last night. A disgrace- 
ful death the passport to an offended God — the horror of 
the present — the terror of the future— the grief of all who 
love you, and the shame you leave ’em. Ah, if you 
would think of all this, you would turn from those that 
would lead you into such snares, and you would yet be 
saved.” 

“But do you think,” replied Rattling Bill, “that 
there’s the laist chance of its coming to all this ? Why, 
don’t you see that we have the best of it ? Was the 
counthry ever in such a state throuble as we’ve put it 
into at present? Fresh -disturbances every day, and at 
every side ? And hasn’t our laider sent us a steel to whet 
our pikes ? As for our mimbers that’s in London, sure 
they’re carrying everything before ’em by the force of 
their speeches. Didn’t our laider call the Parliament 
Commons the other day six hundred scoundrels ? Sure 
that’s spaking plain enough ; I dare say it’s the first time 
they ever heard such names, but they’ll hear worse be- 
fore he has done with ’em, if they let him go on.” 

“ Yes, and how cleverly he got out of it afther,” re- 
plied Larry M‘Swigger ; “ Oh ! let him alone for that. 
He’s the boy that can get out of a scrape. He said he 
did, and he didn’t call^ ’em such names ; and all’ the 
House was crying out oh! oh! as well they might, to 
see his ’cuteness. And he said sure, if he did say it, it 
was in the hate of the moment; but sure it isn’t the hate 
of a moment, but the hate of a life, that he has against 
the English, as well we know, for, faith, he can’t bear 
to allow any one to attempt to govern Ireland but him- 
self, and small blame to him, it’s quite natural afther ' 
having had his own way so long. Now, them English 
are quare people, and don’t often call bad names ; but 
when oncet they say a thing, they never will deny their 
words, and that’s where our laider has the advantage 
over ’em, and this bothers ’em. Now there’s that Mis- 
ther Manly, that gentleman that they call an Irish secre- 
tary, which is a bull, as he is an English secretary; 
now, when he spakes, he never baits about the bush, but 


172 


comes to the truth at oncet, and yet the people in the 
Parliament listens to him, and never coughs or laughs, 
or cry oh ! oh ! as they do for our mimbers, but keep 
crying out hear! hear! hear ! Sure, they seem as if 
they never would be tired of hearing him, and yet he 
never gives ’em the hard words, or clips the king’s En- 
glish, as our mimbers do, — long life to ’em, say I, but a 
little more raison.” 

“Well, sure,” said Rattling Bill, ‘^it will be a hard 
case, and a cruel case too, if we can’t go about at nights 
killing, maiming, houghing, burning, and flogging, as 
we’ve been doing lately, but be forced to stay at home 
and go to bed. Who could stand this ? and to be obliged 
to mind our work, and not attend ’sociations, nor follow 
the advice of our laider and his followers — ^better be hung 
at once. Then they want to thry us by soldiers instead 
of by jurors, which we never will stand, for we can 
frighten Jurors at any time, but the devil himself wouldn’t 
frighten them soldiers, who, not being used to our ways, 
would think our killing a few spalpeens a great crime, 
and make nothing of swinging or transporting us for it. 
But our own jurors, who are used to it, arn’t so severe ; 
besides they’re afraid to be too hard on us, knowing that 
we’d soon pay ’em a visit, and pay ’em nately, for their 
justice. No, no, we must keep away the trials by sol- 
diers, for there’s no joke, as we’ll find to our cost, if 
they come amongst us.” 

“We may defy trials and soldiers too, if we behave 
dacently and quietly,” replied Larry M‘Swigger, “ and 
show the English we have raison, which we’ve never 
shown ’em yet; for to tell the truth, when they call us 
the wild Irish, it’s the mad and the wicked Irish they 
might call us, without telling any fibs.” 

“ But aren’t we in honour bound to stand by O’Blar- 
ney ?” asked Rattling Bill. “And wouldn’t it be a shabby 
and a mane thing too, to turn our backs on him, now 
that all the English are laughing and coughing him down, 
and that he doesn’t seem to have a leg to stand on ? Sure, 
in honour and dacency we’re bound to stand by him to 


173 


the last, and maybe he’ll come to his senses, and write 
to us to lave our disturbances ; but ’till he does, we had 
better go on in the ould way.” 

It was evident, even from the subdued tone of Rattling 
Bill, that the schoolmaster’s speech had produced some 
effect on his hearers, and that even in their rude breasts 
and turbulent spirits, a sentiment of generosity was the 
strongest bond that still attached them to their leaders. 
When will the natural good qualities of this misled people 
be allowed to display themselves, and to win admiration 
where they have hitherto been accustomed to excite only 
dread or dislike ? Let us hope that this period is not far 
distant. 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

So love does raine 

In stoutest minds, and maketh monstrous warre : 

He maketh warre, he maketh peace againe, 

And yett his peace is but continuall jarre : 

O miserable men that to him subject arre!” 

The spirits of Lord and Lady Oriel felt lightened 
when they had left London, and each mile that they re- 
treated from it seemed to render them more cheerful. 
The fair and delicate hand which Lord Oriel pressed 
within his, returned the pressure ; and the renewed ten- 
derness of their sentiments made them feel as if they had 
escaped from some direful calamity, some deluge that had 
threatened to annihilate, or, worse, — to separate them for 
ever. 

All this was felt, but not expressed. At such moments, 
language appears too cold, too feeble to convey our 
thoughts, and a look — a pressure of the hand, speaks 
more eloquently to the feelings, than all that words could 
express. 

The blow which Lady Oriel’s health had received in 
15 ^ 


174 


tlie late shock, rendered her too delicate to travel rapidly ; 
but, so tranquilly, if not happily, passed the hours, that 
she wished not to abridge their brief career. Lord Oriel 
read to her, and, when fatigued, she leaned her head on 
his shoulder with more tenderness, if with less confi- 
dence, than on former journeys, because she felt that 
henceforth they must be all the world to each other, while 
hitherto the world had been much to them. They stop- 
,ped the first evening at * * * and while waiting 

for tea. Lord Oriel took up a newspaper that lay on the 
table, while Lady Oriel closed her eyes to protect them 
from the glare of light in the room, w'hich after some 
hours of darkness in the carriage had dazzled them. On 
opening them, her glance fell on her husband, and she 
was shocked at witnessing the change a few minutes had 
produced in his appearance. The hand that held the 
paper trembled ; his face was deadly pale ; and wildly 
and furtively he glanced at her, and perceiving he had 
excited her attention, hastily left the room, carrying with 
him the paper. 

When he returned, the traces of suppressed agitation 
were visible in his countenance, and it instantly occurred 
to Lady Oriel that the paper he had been perusing must 
have contained some statement relative to her, which had 
caused this change; but on which she dared not, either 
for his sake or her own, trust herself to speak to him. 
Her embarrassment was increased by observing that when 
tea was brought in, the three officious waiters who at- 
tended, seemed to examine her and Lord Oriel with 
peculiar attention. This might only be imagination, but 
she thought that Lord Oriel seemed to have made the 
same remark, and that he shrank beneath the infliction. 
All his efforts to keep up a cheerful conversation for the 
rest of the evening were unavailing; both felt their re- 
straint, but neither dared to comment upon it. 

At each resting-place on the route, Lady Oriel observed 
that her husband studiously removed the newspapers 
from her sight. This studied precaution increased the 
nervous agitation which each day gained - ground, and 


175 


added to the languor and feverish excitement that was 
exhausting her strength. His affectionate attention 
seemed redoubled, and he watched over her with a ten- 
derness known only to those who have witnessed or been 
the object of those nameless attentions that an all-engross- 
ing and anxiously-excited affection bestows in illness or 
in affliction. 

Arrived at the Lakes, they took up their abode at the 
inn at Keswick, and were more surprised than pleased, 
at finding that Lord and Lady Borrodaile, with their 
daughter, occupied the suite of rooms next theirs. Old 
connexions had thrown the families of Oriel and Borro- 
daile much into each other’s society ; but a total want of 
sympathy, and as total a difference of taste, had precluded 
•the intimacy and cordiality that generally arise between 
people who often meet ; and left in its place a cold and 
formal politeness, beyond which neither parties wished 
to pass. 

This untoward rencontre was evidently as disagreeable 
to Lord Oriel as to his wife, though he took some pains 
to appear indifferent to it, and proposed with affected 
carelessness not to make any effort to renew an inter- 
course which had never afforded them any pleasure. 
Lady Oriel felt all that was passing in his mind, and de- 
termined on avoiding, as much as lay in her power, the 
possibility of meeting the Borrodailes. The constraint 
likely to be imposed by this resolution, was contemplated 
with a depression of spirits both by husband and wife ; 
and they retired to their pillows gem by the dread of the 
morrow. 

What are called presentiments are but a knowledge of 
the future, acquired by experience ; and they are seldom 
fallacious. Those that depressed Lord and Lady Oriel 
at night, were increased in the morning by discovering 
that, unless they made themselves prisoners in their 
chamber, there was little chance of avoiding their neigh- 
bours, as the rooms were so near, and they were so con- 
tinually passing from the salon to the bed-rooms, that not 
to meet would be almost impossible. 


176 


Lady Oriel was going to her sitting-room, when Lady 
Borrodaile with one of her daughters came suddenly upon 
her. The girl appeared embarrassed and awkward, 
blushed and turned away; but the mother drew herself 
up, with an air of affected dignity, and having thrown as 
much angry expression into her small grey eyes as they 
would contain, which expression was turned on the 
beautiful face of Lady Oriel, she seized her daughter’s 
hand and hurried her quickly away, as if fearful of con- 
tamination by contact with her. 

All this was the business of a moment ; but its effects 
on Lady Oriel were overpowering. She retreated to her 
bed-room, to endeavour to calm her agitation before she 
joined Lord Oriel at breakfast, and she had been twice 
summoned to that repast, ere she had courage to encoun- 
ter him. 

Whilst writhing under the insult she had just received, 
her only source of consolation was, that her husband had 
not witnessed it. Her own humiliation, hard as it was 
to be borne, she could bear ; but his, brought on him too 
by her, was more than she had fortitude to resist. The 
Indian proverb says, that contempt can pierce even the 
shell of the tortoise. How then must it have wounded 
the sensitive mind of a proud woman ! She had now to 
learn the painful lesson, that we may be stung by the 
marked disrespect of those whose warmest approbation 
could give us no satisfaction, and that the bitterness of 
the mortification inflicted, is not diminished by our con- 
sciousness of the unworthinesa of the source whence it 
springs. 

It was a great relief to Lady Oriel, to see in about an 
hour afterwards, preparations going on at every side for 
the departure of the Borrodaile family. Her conclusions 
that this event was expedited by her arrival, were borne 
out by the officious intelligence of the landlord of the 
inn, who, when presenting the menu for dinner, observed 
that the departure of Lord Borrodaile’s family was very 
unexpected, as their rooms had been engaged for another 
week. When this communication was made, Lady Oriel 


177 


stole a glance at her husband, and his heightened colour 
and averted looks betrayed to her that he also had guessed 
the motives of the Borrodailes’ sudden departure, though 
he avoided all recurrence to it. 

Each new arrival at the inn filled Lady Oriel with 
alarm. It was in vain that she endeavoured to reason 
herself into tranquillity, by dwelling on the happiness 
that was still hers, in possessing a husband dearer to her 
than ever, and who, however a cruel and envious world 
might slander or misjudge her, was convinced of her 
purity. But, alas ! she felt that the warmth and delicacy 
of her attachment to him, gave fresh poignancy to the 
bitterness of knowing that Ae was wounded through her; 
and often did she mentally acknowledge, that all other 
sufferings would be light in comparison to beholding him 
shrinking beneath the stain her indiscretion had fixed on 
his honour. She even thought that a total separation from 
him, would be less wretched than the state of constraint 
in which they lived, and the witnessing the humiliations 
she had drawn on him. 

The sejour at the lakes had failed to give them the 
pleasure they had anticipated, and they now began to 
suspect that solitude alone could save them from the per- 
petual rencontres with persons they wished to avoid. 
Without daring to expose their thoughts to each other, 
thoughts in which so strong a sympathy existed, they 
mutually wished to direct their steps to Oriel Park ; but 
neither had courage to make the proposition, till remark- 
ing one day some plants that reminded them of similar 
ones transplanted the year before at their home, it led 
to an expression of “ How well the gardens must now 
be looking,” and a determination to go there was the 
consequence. 

The journey was long and tedious, both the travellers 
being occupied with painful refieclions, in which retro- 
spections of the happy past were contrasted with fears 
for the clouded future. Their anxiety to conceal such 
thoughts, with the increased tenderness a mutual pity 
excited, only added to the painfulness and constraint of 


178 


their situation. The sensitiveness and pride of Lord 
Oriel, taking alarm at every incident, kept alive in his 
wife’s mind the continual recollection of her misfortune, 
and destroyed the self-confidence which a consciousness 
of innocence might otherwise have given her. 

It was on a Saturday evening that Lord and Lady 
Oriel reached their home. During the last ten miles of 
their journey they had passed through their own estate, 
and were greeted by smiles of welcome, even more flat- 
tering than the marks of deep respect that accompanied 
them, from the happy and prosperous peasantry they 
encountered at every step returning from their accus- 
tomed labours. 

The cottages peeping forth from the trees and flowers 
that shaded them, the paled-in gardens, redolent with the 
flaunting pride of autumn, the cheerful fires seen blazing 
through the bright windows half filled with plants, and 
the rosy-cheeked children at the gates, watching the re- 
turn of their fathers to share the evening repast, all pre- 
sented a picture of rural happiness, that for a short time 
banished the sense of their own depressed spirits, and 
the cause, from the breast of the owners of this exhila- 
rating scene. 

The unsophisticated joy their presence seemed to 
afibrd, was healing to the wounded pride beneath which 
the travellers had lately rankled. They were conscious 
of their power of dispensing happiness to hundreds — a 
consciousness that in itself precludes that deep sense of 
self-humiliation under which they had drooped for the 
last few weeks j and as Lady Oriel reclined her head on 
the shoulder of her husband, and with eyes beaming with 
love, sought his glance, she met a look of satisfied affec- 
tion, to which his intelligent countenance had long been 
a stranger; and for which she requited him with a fer- 
vent and grateful pressure of the hand enclosed within 
her own. 

The air of busy gladness with which their servants 
welcomed them, was damped by an appearance of curi- 
ous examination, convincing the conscious master and 


179 


mistress, that the slanderous reports in circulation in the 
artificial sphere they had quitted, had reached their honte. 
The demonstrative attentions of affection which passed 
between them, — perhaps somewhat more evident now 
that a consciousness of their position suggested to them 
the probable examination to which their manners might 
be subjected, — were regarded with triumphant smiles by 
the old servants, as proofs of the total falsehood of the 
reports that had reached them : and, during the late din- 
ner that was served on their arrival, each gentle inter- 
change of tender courtesy and kindness was noted by the 
significant looks and happy countenances of these faithful 
domestics. 

Lord and Lady Oriel, in remarking this display of 
respectful sympathy, felt that the rank breath of scandal 
had scathed even their household gods, and that the 
lustre of untarnished honour and purity, which identified 
them with all around, was blighted. The princely 
splendour of the apartments, the treasures of art scattered 
at every side, reminding them of their high station, and, 
alas ! too, of all the publicity that high station com- 
manded, of which neither had ever before so forcibly felt 
the responsibility, seemed at present to weigh them 
down with a sense of oppressive and insupportable 
melancholy. As they retired to their chamber through 
the grand picture-gallery, they almost shrank beneath 
the stately and dignified glances with which a long train 
of ancestral nobles appeared to regard them from the 
massive and coronet-crowned frames ranged along its 
vast length. 

Humbly did Lady Oriel, in the privacy of her ora- 
toire, pray to the Fountain of all Mercy, that some por- 
tion of the peace which had hitherto blessed her in this 
happy spot, might now be vouchsafed her ; anS bitter 
were the tears she shed, when she recollected the dif- 
ferent feelings with which she had last knelt on the same 
hassock, then as much a stranger to the suspicion of 
guilt, as she was still to its reality. But the bitterness 
was soothed by the reflection that it was only the sus- 


180 


picion she had to weep over ; and she thanked the Al- 
mighty, who had preserved her from a worse fate. 


CHAPTER XXXII. 

O reputation ! dearer far than life ! 

Thou precious balsam, lovely, sweet of smell. 

Whose cordial drop once. spilt by some rash hand. 

Not all the owner’s care, not the repenting toil 
Of the rude spiller, ever can collect 
To its first purity and native sweetness !” 

Lord and Lady Oriel made it a rule to be regular 
attendants at divine service. They went to church the 
day after their arrival, and felt the soothing influence 
each well-known object had over them. They arrived 
before the service had commenced, and as their eyes fell 
on the family monuments — monuments so often looked 
upon, and never without chastened feelings, the nothing- 
ness of all that had lately agitated them seemed more 
forcibly brought before them. In the pew they now 
occupied, once sat the persons whose names, recorded 
on the marble before them, and whose memories, per- 
haps treasured by a few, were all that now remained — 
shadows that had appeared and passed away, to be fol- 
lowed by others, alike destined to the same fleeting 
existence, and doomed to sleep in the vault beneath. 
The same feelings and passions had actuated them ; 
their hearts had beat with the same feverish pulses in 
youth ; and disappointment and care, the lot of all, had 
reconciled them to the inevitable denouement of the 
tragedy of death. 

Nothing so strongly enables us to meet with dignity 
and resignation the misfortunes of life, as reflections on 
its brevity ; and such reflections are never brought so 
vividly to the mind as in a place of divine worship, 
where our progenitors have offered up their prayers. 


181 


We occupy their places among the living ; our eyes 
dwell on, and our hearts repeat, the same supplications 
to the Deity so often offered up by them ; our ears drink 
the solemn sounds of the same pealing organ that thrilled 
theirs ; all the objects around have been familiar to their 
eyes, as they now are to our own ; and they are sleep- 
ing the marble slumber of death in the cold dark vault, 
that sends forth its hollow reverberations to the sacred 
music they can hear no more. And we, too, who fret 
our little hour upon this mortal stage, shall soon rest 
with them ! Others will take our places as we have 
taken theirs, to pass through the same existence, and to 
arrive at the same goal. 

It is at such moments that we truly feel the nothing- 
ness — the worthlessness — of all that most preys upon us 
in life, and that the mind reposes, if not with hope, at 
least without dread, on that doom the inevitableness of 
which offers the only balm for ills that would be other- 
wise unbearable. 

The soothing contemplations of Lord and Lady Oriel 
were interrupted by the commencement of the service ; 
and, though occupied as both were by its duties, they 
could not avoid observing that all eyes were directed to 
their pew with an expression in which curiosity was 
much more apparent than tliat hienveillance and respect- 
ful attention which had hitherto been wont to greet their 
first appearance at church. The sermon, too, which, at 
any other period, would have only claimed attention for 
its merit, now seemed to their conscious imaginations as 
being appropriately chosen with a reference to their 
supposed position. Its subject w'^as charity ; not the 
charity of giving alms, of clothing the naked and feeding 
the hungry, but the greater, the more difficult, and more 
elevated charity of' judging favourably the imputed or 
proved errors of others — a charity so seldom practised. 

Tlie earnest and fervid manner of Dean Vernon, their 
good pastor, lent additional force to the eloquence and 
purity of his words ; and, (but it might be only fancy,) 
they thought that a kinder expression seemed to pervade 

VOL. L 16 


182 


the countenances of the congregation, whose glances 
were continually directed to their pew. The services 
being over, the acquaintances of Lord and Lady Oriel, 
who had been hitherto proud to flock around them and 
dispute their gracious smiles and shakes of the hand, 
now seemed to stand back, as if waiting to be guided by 
their pastor. The good dean having sought his wife 
and daughter, advanced with them to Lord and Lady 
Oriel ; and the inquisitive examiners of the meeting ol> 
served, that if there was an increased gravity in his man- 
ner, there was also an affectionate cordiality in the 
greeting, which showed that, if he had been grieved by 
the injurious reports so shamefully blazoned in the news- 
papers, he had never believed them. 

This public display of respect from the dignified and 
conscientious clergyman and his family, was the signal 
for the respectful salutations of the rest of their acquaint- 
ances ; and they returned home with something of their 
accustomed feelings, though with a latent consciousness 
that to Dean Vernon’s treatment they owed their good 
reception. 

The next day’s post brought Lady Oriel a letter from 
her brother from Ireland, announcing his intended mar- 
riage. It was filled with lover-like praises of his future 
wife. After enumerating her perfections, mental and 
personal, he added, “But I will sum up all by saying, 
that Frances Desmond is worthy to be the friend of my 
sister, and I anticipate with feelings of delight her resi- 
dence in England, and her entrance into the' world of 
fashion under your protection. I know not another wo- 
man of your age, my dearest Louisa, to whose guidance 
I would entrust Frances ; and perhaps there are few who 
would like to take charge of so handsome a person as she 
is. But you are free from jealousy, as your reputation 
is established as a beauty, and, what is infinitely better, 
as an unsuspected wife, — so you alone shall be her cha- 
peron.” 

The letter fell from her trembling hands, and a violent 
flood of tears gave relief to her oppressed heart. The 


183 


affectionate praises of her brother arriving at such a mo- 
ment, pierced her to the soul, and she felt that he too, 
who had hitherto been a source of happiness to her, 
would henceforth be an additional cause of pain, as he, 
like her husband, would be forced to blush for her. 

“Oh! how dreadful is my position,” exclaimed Lady 
Oriel. “I bring only shame and dishonour on those 
who love me ; those for whom I would die to save them 
from a pang. How often have I looked forward to my 
dear brother’s marrying, and giving me a sister to love; 
but now — how bitter is the thought! my imprudence has 
rendered me unworthy to be the friend of his wife ; for 
how could 1 bear to have her exposed to any of the cruel 
animadversions which her association with me might, 
nay, must occasion ?” 

It was some time ere Lady Oriel could again take up 
her brother’s letter to finish its perusal, but when she did, 
she was relieved by finding that he stated it was not his 
intention to come to England for some months, and she 
was grateful at being spared, even for so short a period, 
from the embarrassment which the arrival of his sister- 
in-law, under her present humiliating circumstances, must 
draw on her. 

And now Lady Oriel felt, and felt with renewed bitter- 
ness, that even the appearance of guilt produced situa- 
tions incompatible with the domestic affections. What 
could be a more convincing proof of this, than that she, 
who a short time ago would have anticipated with impa- 
tience, and hailed with delight, the arrival of her dear 
and only brother, now shrank from seeing him, and felt 
relieved that he was not coming for some months ? She 
answered her brother’s letter; and it was that answer, in 
which a tone of melancholy was so evident, that alarmed 
him. The manner in which Lady Abberville tore the 
veil of ignorance as to his sister’s situation from the eyes 
of Colonel Forrester, is already known to our readers. 

We must now return to London, where we left the 
Desmond family and their son-in-law, waiting the answer 
to the letter which the Colonel had written to his sister 


/ 


184 


on the subject of his proposed visit. This answer we 
will now lay before our readers, 

“Never, my dearest brother, did I address you with 
such various feelings as at this moment, when Joy at your 
arrival, after so long a separation, ought to be the only 
one I should entertain. How shall I tell you that I have 
had the misfortune of incurring scandal that has blighted 
my fame, and though innocent in deed, has sent me co- 
vered with shame into retirement? That I am guiltless, 
you will readily believe; but how few will render me this 
justice ! Still, ought I, can I, let your young and spotless 
wife’s reputation be exposed to the sarcasms that the ill- 
natured world may be inclined to throw on it, if she be- 
comes my associate? I shrink from this responsibility, 
for, alas ! have I not already brought dishonour on him 
I would have died to preserve from it? And you too, my 
brother, will you not have cause to blush for me, when 
you see the name of your sister, of whom you once were 
proud, made the subject of defamation? 

“ All that I have borne you may imagine, but I never 
can describe. My husband, my inestimable husband, 
like yourself, has never doubted me ; but his affection and 
unswerving confidence, which ought to be my consola- 
tion, as they are my pride, only make me feel with more 
bitterness the dreadful position in which my inexperience 
and folly have placed us both. Lord Oriel knows that 
the tongue of slander is busy with my fame, and that 
even his continued confidence has not shielded me from 
its envenomed wounds. My own humiliation I could 
bear, but to draw shame on him, does, indeed, fill my 
soul with bitterness. 

“ But I have not yet told you what has led to this fear- 
ful degradation. Alas ! it was my levity in permitting 
attentions; the motives of which, though obvious to 
others, never were suspected by me until the comments 
they excited had rendered me the subject of general con- 
versation, and were reported to me through the mortify- 
ing medium of my own servant. 1 have frequently tried 


185 


to write all this to yon, but felt unequal to the task. Now, 
however, it can no longer be delayed, and mine is the 
bitter, the humiliating duty of telling you, that you have 
no longer a sister of whom you can^be proud, or one that 
can be an honourable companion to your wife. 

“I can never do justice to the delicacy of the conduct 
of my dear husband all through this fearful business ; but 
I tremble when I think of the mortification I have en- 
tailed on his proud spirit: and fear that even you will 
think I ought not to have subjected him to a continuance 
of humiliation by accepting the protection his love affords 
me, now that he alone, besides yourself, believes me 
worthy of it. 

“I have had great struggles on this point. You, who 
know how I love ray husband, can imagine the despair 
which a separation from him would cause me ; but the 
misery of seeing him exposed to mortification and suffer- 
ing brought on him by me, is almost as bad. 

“Your happiness is my only source of consolation. 
If you wish to preserve that, let not your young and in- 
experienced wife, in the consciousness of innocence, be 
exposed to attentions, which, though they fail to sully 
the purity of her mind, may leave a stain on her reputa- 
tion that all her tears can never efface. Be her guide and 
adviser; warn her of the approach of danger ; be careful 
that her conduct exempt her from the possibility of mis- 
construction, and that her purity be as little doubted by 
the world as by yourself. So will you both be spared 
the misery now felt by your affectionate sister, 

“Louisa Oriel.” 


16 * 


186 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 

“ *Tis slander, 

Whose edge is sharper than the sword, whose tongue 
Out-venoms all the worms of Nile, whose breath 
Rides on the posting winds, and doth belie 
All corners of the world : kings, queens, and states. 

Maids, matrons, nay, the secrets of the grave. 

This viperous slander enters.” 

Colonel Forrester saw at a glance the whole posi- 
tion of his sister; and knowing the character of her 
husband, he felt all that she must suffer from his pride 
and susceptibility. He, too, had indulged in an almost 
blamable pride of his sister. He had seen her the idol 
most worshipped in the temple of fashion ; and, con- 
scious of her purity and fixed principles, he had never 
for a moment suspected the possibility of her losing that 
high consideration in the world which he saw her en- 
joying. But, alas ! in proportion to her elevation had 
been her fall ; for those who once durst hardly have ap- 
proached the altar of this earthly divinity, were noAv the 
most ready to trample on her. His manly heart bled 
w'hen he contemplated his still pure and high-minded 
sister exposed to the sneers and calumny of those inca- 
pable of believing her innocence, because incapable of 
passing the fiery ordeal of temptation undefiled, as she 
had done. 

But while he grieved over her imprudence, and its 
fatal consequences, how did he rejoice in her innocence ! 
With the conviction of this, he could stand forth her 
champion undismayed, and he could place by her side 
the wife of his bosom, his own pure and high-souled 
Frances, without aught, save pleasurable feelings. Never 
did his heart yearn towards his sister more tenderly than 
at this period, and the letter he wrote her was filled with 
every expression of undiminished confidence, affection, 
and sympathy. 


187 


A worldly-minded brother would have remained away 
from the scene of his sister’s degradation at such a mo- 
ment, and would either have contented himself with ap- 
pearing ignorant of the circumstance; or have taken the 
opportunity of sending her a lecture on her imprudence, 
mixed up with some comments on the chances of its 
results extending to him. All the possible annoyances 
would have been dwelt on, until he had made her feel 
that in a brother she had found a censurer instead of a 
friend. 

But Colonel Forrester was no worldly-minded brother, 
and therefore he tried to comfort and assuage the already 
too bitter feelings of his sister. He made Mr. and Mrs. 
Desmond acquainted with the letter of Lady Oriel; for, 
as they had heard the statement of Lady Abberville, he 
thought this exposition necessary. They were too good, 
too honourable, and too pure themselves, not to enter with 
warmth into the feelings of the writer ; and they named 
an early day for leaving town for Oriel Park, determined 
to contribute all in their power to re-establish its mistress 
in the high station which she was so calculated to adorn. 

It has been before stated, that Mrs. Desmond was 
English. Her connexions were among the highest and 
most influential of the aristocracy, and she had always 
kept up a constant and cordial intercourse with them. 
The Desmonds belonged to no clique, sought not for su- 
premacy, because their due portion of respect was ac- 
corded to them ; and they were as ignorant of the petty 
intrigues, jealousies, “ envy, hatred, malice, and all un- 
charitableness,” that characterize the circle, designated 
by the pretentieuse and insulting cognomen of “ The 
Exclusives,” as though they had never lived in London 
during the season. 

The circle in which Mr. Desmond moved, has ever 
been distinguished for the purity of its morals, the dig- 
nity of its manners, and the unaffected decorum of its 
members. This circle is a kind of oasis in the desert of 
the vast metropolis, refreshing to all who approach it, 


188 


and where politics, that powerful leveller, has no influ- 
ence, as Whigs and Tories are equally well received in 
it. It would be invidious to name the females who adorn 
this high and pure aristocracy; but we might make a 
long list, and glory in holding up to imitation women of 
whom England may well be proud, though they are nei- 
ther patronesses of Almack’s, nor obstinate sticklers for 
any system of exclusiveness, excepting that which re- 
gards moral character. 

Mrs. Desmond suggested to her son-in-law the pro- 
priety of introducing Lady Oriel into this circle. “ They ^ 
all know me well,” added the good woman, “ and will 
take your sister on the faith of my character. Nay, it is 
more than probable that they are in perfect ignorance of 
all the vile reports, for they neither talk scandal nor read 
scandalous publications. But if they heard them, they 
would conclude them false the moment they saw Lady 
Oriel living on the best terms with her honourable and 
high-minded husband, and that she was the associate 
chosen by me for my daughter. The consciousness of 
your sister’s establishment in this really respectable cir- 
cle, will soothe the wounded sensibility of your brother- 
in-law, and restore him to all his former feelings. So we 
must persuade them to return with us to London for the 
season, however little disposed they may be to do so.” 

Colonel Forrester felt the good sense and kindness of 
Mrs. Desmond, and rejoiced in thinking of the invaluable 
female friends, — the rarest of all acquisitions, — he had 
secured for his sister, in Mrs. Desmond and her daughter. 

The party set out for Oriel Park, and were not sorry 
to see in all the fashionable newspapers an announcement 
of their departure from Thomas’s Hotel, Berkeley Square, 
to join the distinguished individuals, who were on a visit 
to the Earl and Countess of Oriel. They knew London 
and its fashionable inhabitants sufficiently well, to be 
aware that one half of them would conclude the other 
half were amongst the guests of Oriel Park, and forget 
all scandalous histories, in their desire to be there also. 
Such are London fashionables ! 


189 


When we censure London fashionables for the heart- 
lessness and selfishness which have rendered them' pro- 
verbial, the censure is applied to them not as individuals, 
but as a body. It is the system that produces the evil, 
and it is only while acting en masse that they are faulty. 
The same persons who in the country, removed from 
the influence of the many-headed monster, jmleped 
fashion, are rational and well-disposed, in London lose 
their own identity, and adopt all the conventional egoism 
of their different cliques. They have raised a monstrous 
idol, whose worship demands a continual sacrifice of all 
the best and purest feelings, and they are frightened at 
this imaginary hydra of their own creation. The opinions 
of their circle are made the alpha and omega of their 
line of conduct ; and it is not the wrong or the right of 
such or such a step, but the “ What will the world say 
of it?” which governs them. Moral rectitude and kind 
feelings are all made subservient to the tyrannical sway 
of fashion, and the most ill-natured actions are committed 
without a particle of malice, merely because each indi- 
vidual of a clique must act as the others do. 

Only one thing can be said in favour of this system 
of congregating, and loss of identity, namely, the humi- 
lity it implies; for a person' with any consciousness of 
mental superiority, could never offer up his tastes and 
feelings at the shrine of an earth-formed deity, who de- 
lights only in mediocrity. M‘Adam has not more effec- 
tually reduced the surface of our streets to the same level, 
than has fashion macadamised the minds of her votaries. 
No inequalities remain — no elevations to mark a differ- 
ence. All are flattened down; and one may bowl along 
through fashionable life without encountering any more 
jolts from genius, talent, or affectionate feelings, than one 
should receive on the highways of the modern Colossus 
of Roads^ as he has been aptly named. 

This community of the private stock of thoughts and 
feelings of each individual, to the public stock, reminds 
one of the partition of goods and repasts in common 
among the Spartans. There are other points of resem- 


190 


blaiice also, which we leave to the ingenuity of the reader 
to discover; only premising that England has arrived at 
too great a degree of civilization to sanction a partition 
of goods. It is only in thoughts, feelings, time, and 
repasts she tolerates a community — property is carefully 
preserved for private use or public display, and nowhere 
is more respect paid to the distinctions of meum and 
tuum. 

We must not omit to state that which we had nearly 
overlooked, namely, that the habitual reference to the 
received usages of fashionable life, on all cases of feeling 
as well as of etiquette, has its advantages. Private sym* 
pathies and family affection, with all the embarrassments 
they are so likely to entail, are at once abolished by the 
irrevocable laws of fashion ; and one is absolved from the 
painful necessity of extending invitations to brothers or 
sisters not a-la-mode, or living out of the set of the fa- 
shionables. “ They don’t mix with our clique,” is consi- 
dered by a woman of fashion as a satisfactory and unan- 
swerable mode of accounting for any breach of family 
kindness : she is innocent — the world alone is guilty. 

How much trouble is saved by this conventional mode, 
this true savoir vivre! Precedents are established, from 
which there is no appeal ; and in cases of reproach from 
slighted friends, left-off cousins, and cut acquaintances, 
a reference to the standing laws of the society acquits 
the reproached of any breach des convenances de sa 
clique^ or of being at all (as a lady in such a case once 
candidly said,) influenced by private feelings. Yet some 
of the most admirable women, and excellent men, are to 
be found in the circles denominated, par excellence, the 
fashionable world. They enter them as they would a 
theatre, and are but as an audience ; while those whom 
we have described en masse, are the actors, who have 
so identified themselves with their roles, that they have 
forgotten their original characters, and never figure but 
in those they have assumed. It is for this weakness that 
we have criticised them ; as, however excellent the per- 


191 


formance may be, a little more variety would be agree- 
able. 

Marmontel described the fashionables of Ids own time 
and country, as ^^Passant la moitie de leur temps a rien 
faire, et V autre moitie a faire des riens,'' a description 
more applicable to ours at present, as the French confine 
their fashionable homage to dress alone ; and each indi- 
vidual contributes his or her quota to society without 
attempting to dictate to it, or establish codes, except as 
far as regards the toilette. 

In Italy, the ^^dolce far operates so powerfully 

on the habits of its luxurious natives, that few could be 
found .w'ho would submit to the trouble of framing laws, 
' or following them, for the regulation of that which they 
consider merely as an accessoire to general society ; and 
there are perhaps from this cause, less heart-burnings 
and bitter feelings in Italy than elsewhere. 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 

“ O ! sacred sorrow! by whom souls are tried. 

Sent not to punish mortals, but to guide; 

If thou art mine, and who shall proudly dare 
To tell his Maker he has had his share ? 

Still let me feel for what thy pangs are sent. 

And be my guide, and not my punishment.” 

In addition to her own troubles, Grace Cassidy had 
many friends and relations who had fallen victims to the 
system, into which they were led by the designing and 
self-interested, and she had to weep over the conse- 
quences of errors she could not defend ; errors still more 
to be deplored, because their commission marks not alone 
the want of sense but the want of principle, two deficien- 
cies which are too frequently inseparable. 

A first cousin of Grace had been imprisoned on a 
charge of having been implicated in the murder of the 


192 


police-man killed by Jack Donovan. His wife was in 
her confinement, and his first-born child was supposed 
to be at the point of death, when Grace sought their 
cabin to perform the duties of-humanity. 

A few months before, the cottage of Patrick Mahoney 
was remarkable for its air of cleanliness and comfort. 
He was an industrious and sober man, an affectionate 
husband to a mild, gentle creature, and the fond father 
of one of the finest boys in the village. Everything 
round them flourished, and they were quoted as an ex- 
ample of the good effects of prudence and steady conduct. 
But in a luckless hour, Patrick had listened to the coun- 
sel of one, whom not to listen to would have been deemed 
sin ; and ruin and misery followed his obedience. 

Wretched are those, and miserable must they remain, 
whose religious, moral, and social duties, are in direct 
variance. An observance of the advice of liis spiritual 
director is supposed to be as necessary for the future sal- 
vation of a Roman Catholic, as obedience to the laws, 
and respect to the implied wishes of his landlord, are 
considered necessary to his worldly welfare. When these 
several obligations happen to be in violent opposition, 
how difficult is it for a poor, and well-disposed, but igno- 
rant man, to choose between ruin here and perdition 
hereafter! And is it to be wondered at, that many risk 
and merit the first, to avoid the second ? Such was the 
case with Patrick Mahoney ; for unfortunately he, like 
all his countrymen of the class to which he belonged, 
with a strong predisposition to good, had no fixed prin- 
ciples to guide him ; and consequently /:3ll a ready vic- 
tim to the pernicious advice of those wno should have 
saved him. 

In a country where the true principles of religion are 
understood, the precepts of its ministers must be in ac- 
cordance with its tenets ; but in the Catholic church, in 
Ireland, where superstition supplies its place, and where 
moral duties are as undefined as they are miscompre- 
hended, the priests wield a power as dangerous as it is 
in general misapplied ; and those who yield an implicit 


193 


obedience to it, which in the early ages would have won 
for them the palm and glory of martyrdom, have now all 
the sufferings, but none of the glory. Some there are 
among the Catholic clergy who are pious, good men, ful- 
filling the duties of their station with exemplary perse- 
verance, charity, and humility; but they become every 
day more rare, and one dictator can encourage a thou- 
sand Jesuits to be ready to act as his political agents 
whenever he intimates that he has occasion for their 
services ; and what such services as they can lend may 
accomplish, the last few years in Ireland bear painful 
witness. 

Grace found poor Mary Mahoney laid on the bed of 
sickness ; her body exhausted by suffering, but her mind 
still more afflicted. Her pale face was contrasted by her 
straight raven brows, and the long black eyelashes, that 
threw a shadow over her cheeks. A dead infant was 
placed in a cradle near her bed, and her poor sick child 
was lying by her side, his heavy eyes and flushed cheek 
denoting the ravages that fever was making in his con- 
stitution. His poor mother was continually moistening 
his lips with some syrup, and the glance of mute, meek, 
subdued anguish with which she looked from the sick 
boy to the dead infant, and then at Grace, spoke more 
powerfully than words could have done, all that was 
passing in her mind. 

Grace attempted not to comfort the bereaved mother, 
for she felt that the attempt would be unavailing ; but she 
actively bestirred herself to have the sick boy put into a 
small bed, and kept as cool as possible, and made the 
necessary preparations to have the dead infant removed 
for interment. 

Mary Mahoney submitted to all Grace’s arrangements, 
merely saying, “ Let me kiss my poor baby before you 
hide it from me for ever. It never had a father’s kiss ; 
but promise me, Grace, that you will go to the prison to 
my husband, and try to comfort him. Poor Patrick 
wants it more than I do, and tell him, dear Grace, what 
a sweet baby it was; but no — don’t tell him, for he 

VOL. I. 17 


would only regret it the more, and he has had too much 
trouble already. Tell him, Grace a-voumeen, that I am 
better, and doing finely; quite reconciled to the will of 
God, and always praying for him. Tell him that our 
poor boy is aisier, and to have no care about us. Oh ! 
Grace asthore, spake kindly to him, with your own 
sweet, mild, sensible voice, and ’twill do him good, and 
take the bitterness out of his heart, just as honey cures 
the wound that is made by the sting of wasps ; and 
ochone ! he has been stung, and to the quick too. Mind, 
a-vourneen, you tell him how well I am, and give him 
this kiss for me,” pressing her pale, cold lips on the fore- 
head of Grace. 

The coffin which a kind neighbour had ordered for 
the dead infant before Grace had arrived, was now 
brought in, and a tremulous movement about the lips, 
aud still more marble paleness, proved the renewed an- 
guish of the mother. “ Grace ma-vourneen,” murmured 
she, “ don’t raison with me, for I’m beyond raison, my 
heart, and my poor head are so tired ; but do, for mercy- 
sake, what I ask you. Sprinkle the coffin with holy 
water. Now bring it here, and lay it on the bed, and 
fetch me the flannels you’ll find in the corner cupboard. 
There— that will do ; help me to sit up, that I may make 
my baby’s last bed.” 

' She folded the flannels smoothly, one over the other, 
making a little elevation like a pillow, and then pointed 
for Grace to bring her the dead infant. When it was 
brought to her she kissed its little face and hands several 
times, pressed it to her bosom, and then placed it gently 
in the coffin. 

“I had hoped, my precious babe,” said she, “ to have 
placed you in a softer bed, and to have made my breast 
your pillow ; but the Almighty has thought fit to take 
you from me, and I submit without murmuring to his 
holy will. The thoughts of you, child of my heart, shall 
make me still more desirous so to do my duty in this 
life, that I may meet you in Heaven.” 

She bowed her head to kiss, once more, the infant. 


195 


and then said to Grace, “ Now, dear friend, close the 
coffin, I have looked my last on that sweet face ; and lift 
the curtain of the little bed where my boy lies, that I 
may see I have still a child left me. Och ! Grace, it is 
a blessed thing to be a mother ; but to see the babe, for 
which one has suffered so much, carried away from one 
for ever, is a bitter thing. Then it seems, too, as if a 
child lost, was a link lost of the blessed chain of love 
between man and wife ; but no, I won’t think this, for 
grief draws hearts together.” 

Grace had the little bed of the sick boy brought nearer 
to his poor mother, and the dead infant removed for 
interment ; and having made everything round the sick 
woman as comfortable as circumstances would admit, 
poor Mary became so anxious that Grace should proceed 
to Dungarvan to visit Patrick in his prison, that she left 
her to return to her own home, to demand the company 
of Jim on the expedition. 

When she was quitting the room, poor Mary called 
her once more to beg she would be sure to tell Patrick 
how finely she was going on, and not to be uneasy about 
her. 

What an inexhaustible mine of tenderness is there in 
woman’s heart ! Here was this helpless creature, with 
a frame worn down by illness, and a mind bowed by 
anxiety for a husband and child, and grief for the death 
of her infant, forgetting her own misery to send comfort 
to her husband ; to that husband who had occasioned all 
her troubles by his obstinacy in rejecting her advice and 
entreaties, and who had plunged her in such alarm as to 
cause a premature labour, and the death of her child. 
The thought that he would feel all this with bitterness 
and self-accusation, rendered her the more anxious to 
make him believe that she was doing well, for affection 
triumphed over all suffering and selfishness. Affection 
is the true, the only refiner of our natures ; and the hum- 
blest peasant in her cottage who feels it, is at heart more 
refined than the proudest princess who is unconscious of 
its influence, but who would be shocked by an unpo- 


196 


lished phrase or an inelegant expression. There is a 
wide distance between refinement of the heart and re- 
finement of the manners ; and we see many instances of 
the latter, with a total deficiency of the former. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

“ The virtues of others often serve as a light to illumine our 
own mental darkness, and to incite us to goodness.” 

Grace Cassidy returned with a heavy heart to her 
cottage. The resignation and meekness of Mary Maho- 
ney bad filled her with admiration and pity, and she ac- 
cused herself of not having, with the patience of her 
friend, borne the trials that Jim’s obstinacy had entailed 
on her. “ Oh,” said she, “ what were my trials to hers ? 
and how thankful ought I to be to God ! Short-sighted 
and ungrateful that I have been, how have I lamented not 
being a mother ! and now that I know the misery chil- 
dren may cause, have I not reason to rejoice that this 
grief has not fallen on me, as I might, like Mary Maho- 
ney, have seen my babe shut from my sight for ever ? 
Oh ! ’twas a bitter sight, to behold her pale face laid 
against the dead face of her infant, as she gave it the last 
kiss ; and her words, and, above all, the meek look of 
the poor creature, made me feel a choking that I have 
seldom undergone before. It reminded me so much of 
the old song of a mother to her dead child, which I used 
to think too sorrowful to be true, that poor Mary seemed 
the very person who made it, and it has been ringing in 
my ears ever since. 

‘ Oh! sleep, my babe, on that cold bed 
On which I lay thy precious form ; ' 

I thought to pillow thy fair head 
Upon a mother’s bosom warm. 


197 


‘ But death, cold death, has snatch’d my child. 

And sorrow fills my aching- breast ; 

Nor can it soothe my anguish wild 
To know my darling is at rest. 

* Yes, precious babe, thou’rt gone to sleep. 

Unknowing all the cares I feel : 

, Thine eyes had yet not learned to weep, 

When death thus closed tliem with his seal. 

*Oh! take a mourning mother’s kiss. 

Impress’d upon thy forehead fair : 

Ah! why these tears ? for thou’rt in bliss. 

While we in sorrow linger here,’ 

“ Sure, there is something in real sorrow that touches 
us all ; but when it is borne as poor Mary bears it, one 
feels that God gives us such examples to teach us how 
we ought to bear the troubles He sends us. I hope the 
lesson won’t be lost on me, for sure it is one that would 
touch a heart of stone. And there is poor Mary in that 
darkened room, the empty cradle before that held her 
dead child, and her sick boy, with his poor burning 
brow, and he that ought to be near to comfort her, locked 
up in a prison — and all this misery is within a few steps 
of me ; and here is the brilliant sun going to his bed, and 
drawing his bright crimson curtains around him, just as 
if he had not looked down on grief and sorrow this day. 
How many hearts have ached and eyes wept, since that 
sun arose this morning ! and there he is, going to sleep 
with as much splendpur as if all below here was happy. 
Sure, it isn’t natural ; I’d like to see him look a little 
gloomy, with dark clouds about him, instead of all those 
gold and crimson ones, so that one might think he felt a 
little of the troubles of us poor creatures ; and I don’t 
like to hear all the birds singing so gaily, and to see 
everything looking so beautiful, when poor Mary has 
such a heavy heart, and her innocent babe is just laid in 
the grave. But, sure, I’m a fool to have such thoughts, 
just as if the sun, who passes over such Iiundreds, ay, 
and thousands of people too, can mind us / or as if the 
birds are sensible of our troubles ; but still it does seem 
17 ^ 


198 


unnatural to see everything in nature smiling when our 
hearts are sinking.” 

When Grace entered the cottage, she found Jim im- 
patiently expecting her. “ I thought you’d never come 
home, Grace,” said he ; “ and the house looked so quare 
and so dismal without you, that I was quite lonesome.” 

“ I’m glad you missed me, Jim dear,” said Grace, 

? * “ and I never felt more contented to see you. Sure, I’ve 

;0- been thinking how thankful I ought to be to God, to 
have you safe by my side, and myself too in good health, 
God be praised ! when I don’t desarve such blessings 
half so much as poor Mary Mahoney. Och ! Jim, it is 
she that bears her troubles. May He who gave them, 
lighten them, and send poor Patrick safe out of prison, 
to be a comfort to her! And now, dear Jim, that my 
heart is full with all I’ve seen and felt the last few hours, 
let us both kneel down, and return thanks for all the mer- 
cies we have enjoyed, and the sorrows that have been 
spared us.” 

The earnestness of Grace’s manner, and the descrip- 
tion she had given him of Mary Mahoney’s sufferings 
and resignation, touched the naturally good heart of Jim. 
They knelt and offered up their prayers, with hearts 
penetrated with thankfulness, and retired to sleep with 
more tranquil feelings than either had known for some 
time, and determined to set out to visit poor Patrick in 
prison next morning. 

When Grace and Jim had finished their morning’s re- ,, 
past, they made up a store of such provisions as they ; 
thought would be acceptable to the poor prisoner, and 
then pursued their way to Dungarvan. It was a lovely 
morning, and all nature seemed rejoicing. Birds carolled 
on every branch, and butterflies sported in the air, “ like 
winged flowers.” The dew still sparkled on the leaves, 
and the atmosphere was redolent with the perfume of the 
wild-flowers, growing in abundance on every side. 

They were leaving this bright and beautiful scene to 
enter the gloomy walls of a prison, to comfort him, who 
was debarred from this pleasant sight, and who was kept 


ffsvay from his suffering wife and child. They both felt 
this, and "while it rendered them serious, it increased 
their tenderness to each other. Jim was more like the 
Jim of former days, than he had been for many months, 
and Grace had more hopes of his amendment. 

“I feel, Jim dear,” said Grace, while they pursued 
their route, “that my heart has been lighter since we 
knelt down and prayed together last night, than it has 
been for months. Oh ! if you knew the bitterness of feel- 
ing that while the lips are addressing God, the heart is 
beating for one that seems to forget Him ! Many’s the 
time I’ve got up from my knees, fearful of offending with 
lip-prayers, when my whole soul has been with you; 
and, oh ! the frightful thoughts that have come into my 
mind. I used to imagine, Jim, tliat if by prayers and 
good works I could merit Heaven, what a terrible thing 
it would be for me to be there without you ; and the idea 
of our being separated in the next world, was so fearful 
to me, that I have been afraid to pray. But then I con- 
sidered in myself, and I came to the resolution to do all 
the good I could, and always to pray for you ; and since 
then my mind has been easier, and I find I can give my 
whole thoughts to the prayers "w^hen they are offered for 
you ; whereas, when I prayed for myself, my thoughts 
were going after you. Jim, how completely a poor wo- 
man’s happiness here and hereafter depends on her hus- 
band ! God forgive me, for I know it’s a terrible sin and 
weakness, but I’d lose the courage to pray if I thought 
you and I would not be united in the next world. So 
you see a man has a double sin to answer for when he 
neglects his religion, for he risks his own soul, and his 
poor wife’s too.” 

“ Well, Grace, I give you my hand and word that, 
with the blessing of God, I’ll never miss joining with 
you in prayers for the future, for what you’ve just tould 
me shows your own fond loving heart so plain, that I’d 
be a brute if I could let you have such thoughts when I 
may prevent ’em by doing my duty. Sure, Grace, there’s 
something in a good woman that’s holy and purifying. 


200 


and if all women were like you and Mary Mahoney, the 
world would be better. The only wonder is, how poor 
Patrick and I could ever be such weak fools as to vex ye 
day after day. God forgive us for our neglect, and keep 
us from doing the like again ! It’s a quare thing, Grace, 
but so it is, that whenever you spake to me from your 
head, that is when you spake plain raison to me, I don’t 
mind it a bit ; but when you spake to me from your 
heart, I’m ready to do anything you ask me, for my 
heart understands yours just as if they were twins — ^but 
the heads don’t agree at all ; so when you want to get 
good of me, don’t spake from the head, for I’m no great 
hand at raisoning, and am very contrairy likewise, but 
the heart is right after all, and besides, Grace, that’s your 
own, so you may do as you like with it.” 

Jim and Grace arrived at Dungarvan, and sought the 
prison, where, after some hesitation, they were admitted, 
and allowed to see the poor prisoner. 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 

False friends will seek you in a happy home ; 

But true friends only to a prison come. 

Old Play. 

After passing through various corridors, attended by 
the turnkey, whose services they retained by a present, 
they arrived at the door of the cell in which Patrick Ma- 
honey was confined. 

“Well,” exclaimed Grace, “ what an immense place 
the gaol is, and what thick walls and gloomy passages ! 
Sure it’s a curious thing, if the country is so poor as 
people say, that they can afford to build such large strong 
prisons ; maybe half what it cost to build it would keep 
more than half the prisoners out of it. Sure it’s a sign 
they must have great call for ’em ; and, you see, it would 
make ten of the parish church.” 


201 


These reflections were uttered to Jim while they passed 
through the corridors ; but when, arrived at the door, 
Grace saw the turnkey fit in the ponderous key to the 
lock, and remove the chain that crossed the door, the 
sound grated harshly on her ear, and she involuntarily 
shuddered. 

“ Here are some friends come to visit you, Mahoney,” 
said the turnkey. “ The ould saying goes, that people 
don’t like to see friends in distress, and that’s the raison 
they never come to ’em in prison ; but I’m sure the two 
that’s come to see you are friends, and real friends too ; 
so I’ll leave you together.” And, pushing them in, he 
closed the door ; and they heard him bolt and lock it 
again on the outside. 

Patrick Mahoney was sitting on the side of his wretched 
bed, the only piece of furniture in the cell that could serve 
as a substitute for a chair. He laid down the book he 
had been reading, and advanced to meet Grace and Jim. 
He was pale and haggard, with a care-worn aspect, as if 
he had been months, instead of only a few days, the in- 
mate of a prison. He was unshaved, and his dark beard 
made his haggard paleness appear still more striking. 

“ Neighbours,” said he, embracing them both, “ this 
is a dismal place you behold me in, and it’s only kind 
and constant friends like yourselves that would come 
here. Have you seen my poor woman, Grace Cassidy?” 
continued he, a tear starting to his eye as he spoke ; “and 
my poor boy, that was ill in the fever, when they tore 
me away from ’em. As for Mary, she always thries to 
make light of her own sufferings ; and when I got fright- 
ened at seeing the terrible paleness that came over her 
face, and the twitching about her mouth, when they were 
dragging me away, sure she cried out to me that she was 
not ill at all, and that it was only a stitch in her chest, 
that was gone in a minute. — Her face, just as she looked 
that moment, is always before my eyes, and I have not 
the courage of a mouse to bear up against all the frightful 
thoughts that keep coming into my head about her.” 

Grace broke to him the real state of his wife and child, 


202 


and the death of the infant, with all the kind and conso- 
latory expressions she could use, and delivered the mes- 
sages of poor Mary ; but nothing could soften the bitter- 
ness of Patrick Mahoney’s grief, as he felt that he had 
brought all those troubles on his wife. Tears chased 
each other down his cheeks, and he accused himself with 
vehemence of having caused the death of his infant, and 
probably that of his wife and son. 

“ Oh ! Grace Cassidy,” said he, in answer to Grace’s 
attempts at consoling him, “ it’s no use talking ; sure I 
know and feel I’m the cause of it all. Has not that 
blessed creature, for blessed she is, been advising me for 
months and months not to go against my landlord, and 
not to be attending the meetings or following the Re- 
palers ? and she warned me of all that would hap- 
pen ; but I, like a brute and a fool, wouldn’t listen to 
her, though I beheld her getting paler and thinner every 
day ; and you see how her words are come thrue ! 
There she is, in her solitary cabin, on the bed of sick- 
ness and sorrow, to which my folly has brought her ; and 
I locked up here, without being able to go and nurse her, 
and half-maddened by the dismal thoughts that comes 
into my head continually.” 

Fresh bursts of tears and sobs followed each exclama- 
tion of Patrick, which were shared by his two friends, 
who left no means untried to comfort the afflicted and 
heart-broken man. Grace assured him that she would 
go and see Mary every day, and. that she should want for 
nothing ; that they would take back cooling draughts for 
the child, and whatever the doctor thought would be best 
for Mary ; but that, unless they could tell her that they 
left Patrick resigned to the will of God, no medicine 
would do her good : and this argument had more in- 
fluence on Patrick than all the others. 

He dried his eyes, and said to Grace, “ Och ! I never 
was desarving of Mary. Never did she give me a cross 
word or a sour look, though many’s the time I desarved 
both ; and whenever throuble came on us, and mostly 
always of my bringing on, she bore it so patiently, and 


203 


was always only thinking how she should comfort me, 
and never remembering herself. Only once she spoke 
of herself, and how often her words come into my mind 
since I have been here ! ‘ Patrick dear,’ said -she, ‘ I 
could bear anything ; but to have you taken away from 
me, to see violent hands laid upon you, oh ! I’m afraid it 
would kill me \ and then I know your good heart would 
make you be always blaming yourself, and even in death 
this would throuble me.’ Yet after all this good advice, 

I went on, without minding it. 

“ Och ! Grace,” continued the poor man, after a pause, 

“ when will the terrible effects of my folly and bad con- 
duct be over ? lam committed here on the suspicion of 
a murder, a suspicion that never could have fallen on me 
had I not been known to keep irregular and improper 
hours ; and now I have murdered my own child, and am 
killing its mother, by that most cruel death, a breaking 
•heart. Good as Mary is, and sure such goodness was 
never surpassed on earth, how can she ever look at me 
without thinking that I caused the loss of the child that 
we both looked forward to as a new tie to bind us to 
each other ? How can I comfort her for the throuble 
I’ve brought on her ? and when she thinks of her baby, 
and often will she think of it, won’t the thought be mixed ' 
with the cause of its death ? — I am that cause.” ’ » 

Grace said all that kindness and pity could prompt to 
console the sorrow and lighten the remorse of Patrick,"^^ 
and left him not until she had succeeded in reconciling ^ 
him to himself. 


END OF VOL. I. 










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repealer's. 

... • 

. A NOVEL. 

BY THE COUNTESS OF BLESSINGTON. 




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Some popular chief, ' i 

’■ More noisy than the rest, but cries halloo. 

And in a trice the bellowing herd come out; 

The gates are barr’d, the ways are barricado’d : 

And one and all’s the word ; true cocks o’ th’ game! 

They never ask for what, or whom they fight; > 

But turn ’em out, and show ’em but a foe; ^ ^ 

> Cry Liberty! and that’s a cause for quarrel. • 

Dryoeh's Spanish Friar, « 


IN TWO VOLUMES. 

VOL. II- 


PHILADELPHIA: 

.CAREY, LEA, & BLANCHARD, CHESTNUT STREET. 



1833 


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THE REPEALERS. 


CHAPTER I. 


Adversity, *tis thine to prove 
The truth of friendship, or of love j 
Thy frown can send the false away. 

But makes the faithful nearer stay ; 

Thy chilling breath illusion rends. 

And is too cold for summer friends. 

Old Fable. 

The meeting between Colonel Forrester and his party 
with Lord and Lady Oriel, was marked by the most 
affectionate cordiality; the pale cheek, chastened ex- 
pression of countenance, and timid manner of Lady Oriel 
increased the tenderness of her brother, and the deep 
interest she excited in the rest of his new family. Mrs. 
Forrester and she became friends and sisters in heart, 
and perhaps it would be difficult to find two women so 
calculated to understand and appreciate each other. 
Young, handsome, and highly accomplished, married to 
men to whom they were fondly attached, and without 
any of the pretensions or rivalry that in general clouds 
the friendship of women so much as to render it apocry- 
phal, they quickly formed an attachment that promised 
to be as durable, as it was sincere. 

The whole party soon felt as much at home with each 
other, as if they'had been acquainted all their lives. Mr. 
Desmond accompanied Lord Oriel over his farms, and 
witnessed the improvements in progress ; and Mrs. Des- 
mond drove or walked out with Lady Oriel and Mrs. 


4 


Forrester in the beautiful park or its environs. The 
evenings were passed in cheerful conversation, enlivened 
by music, and the hours flew with a rapidity only known 
to those with highly cultivated minds, and in congenial 
society. 

It was evident that the arrival of the party had pro-' 
duced the happiest effects on the master and mistress of 
Oriel Park. Lord Oriel, in witnessing the cordiality and 
admiration evinced by the mother and daughter towards 
his wife, gained more confidence, and was enabled to look 
forward to her future position with less dread. Morning 
calls from all the distinguished families in the neighbour- 
hood poured in on them ; and the presence of two such irre- 
proachable women as Mrs. Desmond and Mrs. Forrester, 
failed not to have a great weight in re-establishing Lady 
Oriel in her former position. Colonel Forrester sug- 
gested to his sister the propriety of her giving frequent 
dinners ; and a splendid ball, to which all the ball-going 
people in the vicinity were invited, was as numerously 
attended as any fete Lady Oriel had ever given in former 
days. 

At the first commencement of this series of entertain- 
ments, Lord Oriel betrayed a nervous anxiety, as if he 
doubted their success ; and the manner of Lady Oriel 
showed a timidity that denoted she no longer felt certain, 
as formerly, that she could not fail to please. Colonel 
Forrester observed this apprehension, and, with his 
knowledge of the world, felt and declared that all such 
indications of a consciousness of having been placed in 
a false position, must be subdued, and an air of unem- 
barrassed oase and cheerfulness assumed. 

“ But, my dearest brother,” said Lady Oriel, “ I feel 
so alarmed, knowing the frightful things that were said 
and believed of me, that though innocent, I am always 
afraid of observing some incivility or slight in the persons 
who approach me ; and when they are kind, I am so 
grateful, and think their conduct so good-natured, that I 
can scarcely conceal what is passing in my mind, or pre- 
serve the same ease of manner, as in past times.” 

“I can understand your discomfort, dear Louisa,” 


5 


replied Colonel Forrester ; “ and, with your delicacy 
and sensitiveness, it is but natural you should feel as you 
do. But, believe me, the world will always remember 
the reports in question still more, by your exposition of 
any consciousness of their ever having existed. Re- 
ceive, with dignified equanimity, the respect and atten- 
tion due to your station, and which you feel you have 
not really forfeited, however appearances may have been 
against you. But beware of showing either timidity or 
gratitude, or you will be oftener compelled to suffer from 
the first, than to have cause for the second.” 

Each week brought an increase of visitors to Oriel 
Park, and its susceptible master no longer had cause to 
be nervous about the reception of his wife, in his own 
county at least. Lady Oriel rejoiced, for his sake much 
more than for her own, in having recovered her place in 
society ; for the great world, or rather the circles of 
fashion that compose it, had lost all charms for her, 
from the moment she had experienced its frowns, and 
she only wished her husband could be as independent of 
it as she was. She felt that a happy home with a few 
chosen friends, like those at present around her, was 
preferable to all the gaiety and splendour of a London 
life ; and she ceased to value the admiration she had 
hitherto so much desired to excite. 

Every trial with which we are visited in life, how- 
ever severely it may be felt at the time, brings with it a 
corrective for some error — correctives, that, alas ! all of 
us but too much require. Lady Oriel had suffered se- 
verely, and was chastened, but not soured, by the les- 
son she had received. In ceasing to seek admiration, 
she had learned to merit esteem ; and if she became a 
less fascinating, she became a more estimable woman. 

If, a few days before the arrival of her brother and 
his party, any one had told Lady Oriel how advanta- 
geous its results would be in assisting her to regain her 
place in society, she would have doubted, or at- least 
have not believed, the extent and the rapidity with which 
this object would be accomplished; the anticipation 
would have appeared too flattering to her hopes. 


6 


But now that it was achieved, was she as happy as 
might be expected ? Alas ! no ; experience had taught 
her the little value to be attached to the occupations and 
amusements that had hitherto filled up her time, and had 
also laid open to her the undue importance her husband 
placed on that fickle and hollow circle, denominated, joar 
excellence^ the fashionable world. She saw that on this 
foundation of sand, Lord Oriel was still disposed to build 
his and her happiness ; and she felt grieved that he 
could not, like her, choose a more solid foundation. 
Loving her husband as she now did, even with more 
tenderness than ever, this want of sympathy was morti- 
fying to her ; and she trembled as she reflected, that not 
on her future conduct, but on her reception by the 
fashionable world in London, would the tranquillity of 
her husband solely depend. 

“ Could we change situations,” said Lady Oriel to 
herself, “ and that Ae, without a crime, had been cen- 
sured and condemned by the world, should I refer to 
that world for peace of mind ? No, once assured of his 
honour, and possessing his undivided affection, I would 
abandon the circle which had doubled him, and proudly 
confine myself to the narrow one of chosen friends, who 
knew how to estimate him.” 

The quickness of perception of Lady Oriel had led her 
to detect every symptom of the thoughts and feelings of 
her husband ; and her heart sickened when she observed 
his nervous anxiety to ascertain the effect her presence 
produced in the society around them. To a woman of 
a proud and delicate mind, nothing is more humiliating 
than to observe in a husband the semblance of an appeal 
to the opinions of others in the estimation he forms of his 
happiness, or of the sources of it. She wished Lord Oriel 
to be happy, without any reference to the uncertain crite- 
rion of fashionable award; and she was jealously alive to 
the conviction, now forced on her mind, that never would 
he be happy unless he saw her reinstated in the same 
brilliant position she had formerly held, and which her 
pride shrank from ever again stooping to seek, while her 


7 


feelings yet rankled under the indignity she had expe- 
rienced. 

The agreeable manners and excellent qualities of the 
Desmonds and Forresters rendered them universally be- 
loved and respected by all the visiting circle in the 
vicinity of Oriel Park. They were so cordially pressed 
to prolong their visit, that tliey consented to remain 
until March, when Lord and Lady Oriel intended to go 
to London for the season, and Mr. and Mrs. Desmond 
decided on opening their splendid mansion on an exten- 
sive scale of hospitality, for the alleged purpose of mak- 
ing their son-in-law personally acquainted with the large 
circle of their acquaintance, but really much more with 
the intention of establishing Lady Oriel in that circle. 
The delicate tact* of Mrs. Desmond had prevented her 
ever touching on the subject; but Colonel Forrester, 
who was in the secret, observing the alarm and timidity 
w'ith which his sister contemplated lier return to London, 
acquainted her with the project of Mrs. Desmond, and 
assured her that, from the influence and popularity of 
that lady, it was certain of being crowned with success. 

Hoav grateful did Lady Oriel feel for such trlie, s^ch 
rare proofs of friendship : and how did she thank her 
brother, to whom she felt she owed it, while he dis- 
claimed all thanks by saying — “ I cannot allow you, my 
dearest Louisa, to think you owe the affectionate friend- 
ship of my wdfe and her mother to me ; you are only 
indebted to me for the acquaintance. Your own merits 
alone have secured you their love, and as they are as 
sincere as they are warm in their attachments, you may 
, calculate on them for life. There is this difference be- 
tween them and the persons who compose the fashiona- 
' ble world, that no evil rumour could be for a moment 
credited by the first, and there is no extent of evil to 
which the credulity of the last will not lend a willing 
ear. Such is the difference between true friends and 
worldly ones, between good people and people of fashion, 
and from the simple reason that each judges from self.” 

Lady Oriel conducted her amiable friends to the cot- 
tages that were scattered in the vicinity of Oriel Park, 


8 


where her presence never failed to dispense gladness ; 
and when Mrs. Desmond and her daughter saw the 
cleanliness and comfort that pervaded the domestic 
economy of these humble dwellings, where good order, 
and a scrupulous attention to neatness, marked the habits 
of their inhabitants, they sighed at the contrast offered to 
them in the cottages round Springmount, which, with 
the exception of that of Grace Cassidy and Mary Maho- 
ney presented melancholy proofs of the often-repeated fact, 
that Ireland is a century behind England in civilization. 

Encouragement had not been wanting on the parts of 
Mrs. Desmond and her daughter, to induce the lower 
orders in their neighbourhood to adopt the improvements 
and comforts common to the English peasantry. At their 
own expense they had chimneys built, instead of the old 
mode of a hole, with a parapet of dried mud round it, 
to let out the smoke ; and they had glazed windows made 
to open, to supply the place of the small square of bull’s- 
eye glass, that admitted but little light, and no air. 'BhO'y 
had brick floors, instead of the unequal mud ones, half 
filled with lodgments of water, and the roofs were ceiled 
to keep out vermin, and prevent their being, as hereto- 
fore, the receptacles of typhus, the vapours of which had 
lodged in the unceiled thatch. These improvements had 
been effected, with considerable expense to the excel- 
lent owners of Springmount, but had failed, except in a 
few instances, to answer the desired end — of giving the 
peasantry a taste for comfort and cleanliness. 

“ Sure, the chimney carries off all the hate of the 
fire with the smoke,” said old Madge Casey, “ and 
the cabin isn’t half so warm as it used to be ; and 
them thin plaguy windows let’s in so much light, that 
if there is a speck of dirt, they shows it; besides, 
they’re so aisily broken, and then themisthress and the 
young lady are vexed if we fill up the broken pane with 
a w'isp of straw or ould rags, as we used to do with the 
ould windows. The floor, too, is so hard to the feet, and 
must be claned continually ; and as for the roof, sure, it’s 
as could as ice, and as white and shining too, and keeps 
none of the hate in, as you may see by its having none 


9 


of the marks of the smoke on it. Och ! it’s not to be 
compared to the elegant roofs we had before, with the 
sticks across for the hens to roost in ; and sure it was so 
comfortable to have all the cocks and hens over our 
heads, crowing and fighting, and the pigs rouling on the 
floor, and muddling in the lochs of water running here 
and there between our legs, and putting their snouts into 
the iron-pots, just as if they were their own trouflfs, and 
that they knew they had the best right to ’em, as sure 
they, certainly had, for they were the rale rint payers. 
But now everything is changed, and they want to make 
us English, which they never can do, barring Ave’re born 
over again ; and sure it’s a pity they won’t let us be com- 
fortable in our own way. Sure, them English must work 
like • galley slaves, or niggers, merely to keep the house 
clane ; and what fools they must be to be thinking of the 
comforts of the house, as if it was a Christian, instead 
of thinking of their own. I dare say the ladies did it all 
for t^. best; but we’ve never had a bit of pace or com- 
fort since we took to their English Avays ; and as for the 
poor pigs, sure they’re so lonesome and low-spirited 
since they’re kept in their styes, instead of having the 
run of the house, that it’s dismal to hear the moaning 
and grunting of ’em. The poor cocks and hens, too, 
are quite on the shockarone ; and the young ducks and 
goslings, that used to be so happy, swimming in the lit- 
tle ponds of muddy water in the floor, are noAV straying 
about as if they didn’t know Avhat to do with themselves. 
Och ! it’s a dismal thing to see a family scattered about 
in such a manner, that used to be all happy and com- 
fortable under the same roof, fattening and thriving to- 
gether on the same victual, and, as a body might say, 
having but the same bed and the same board. God for- 
give them that’s the cause of all this changement, for 
I’m sure they meant it for the best.” 

Madge Casey spoke the sentiments of the greater part, 
if not the whole, of the old peasantry round Spring- 
mount. They could not habituate themselves to the 
changes, which they were loth to consider improvements, 
in their dAvellings. 


10 


“ I don’t like their newfangled alterations,” said Molly 
Macguire ; “ sure, it isn’t natural that we should be fol- 
lowing fashions that those that were here before us never 
dreamt of. I loved my poor father and mother that’s gone 
to their long home, and I like to remember them sitting 
one at each side of the chimney-corner, their toes almost 
in the ashes, their heads resting on their knees, and their 
short dudeens* in the corners of their mouths, as com- 
fortable as two poor creathurs could be ; the house so gay 
with pigs, ducks, and geese, running about the floor, 
grunting, quacking, and squalling ; cocks and hens crow- 
ing over their heads so lively ; and the gossoons so happy, 
tormenting the cat and dog, and baiting their little sisters ; 
— sure it was a pleasant sight, and the ould couple seemed 
to enjoy it! I could sit down and remember this, till it 
seemed to be aU before my eyes. But now everything 
is so changed, that I can’t for the life of myself bring ’em 
back to me, and this bothers me, and puts dismal thoughts 
into my head ; for I seem to be an unnatural child to my 
poor parents that’s dead and gone, God rest their souls ! 
to turn their fine flouchoolaught cabin topsy-turvy into an 
English cottage, as they call it ; so that, if they were to 
come back some night (and sure there’s nothing to hinder 
’em, as many’s the spirits have done before), ’twould 
drive ’em stark mad to see how everything is changed, 
and that their unnatural children wouldn’t be contint with 
what was good enough for them. Och, agrah ! when one 
has lost those that were near and dear to one, it seems 
so natural to keep everything the same as it was before 
they went; for then it seems as if they were not gone 
quite entirely, and one can bring ’em before one’s eyes 
just as they used to be.” 

Mrs. Desmond and her daughter saw with disappoint- 
ment that the improvements they had made had not in- 
creased the comfort of the persons they were intended 
to benefit; and their efforts to ameliorate the condition of 
a people whose prejudices and habits opposed a powerful 


* Short pipes. 


f Irish for hospitable. 


11 


obstacle to their benevolent endeavours, were, though not 
altogether abandoned, greatly discouraged. 

Grace Cassidy and Mary Mahoney profited by the 
countenance and support which they received^ Their 
cottages were as clean and tidily kept as in England, 
their gardens as redolent of flowers, and there was even 
a spirit of coquetry in the care bestowed in the decora- 
tion, particularly by Grace, who, having no children to 
occupy her time, had more leisure than Mary. The fresh 
nosegays ranged on the dresser as white as unsunned 
snow, and on which a goodly show of pewter and delf 
was set out ; the brick floor, cleanly swept, and as red as 
a cherry ; the windows rubbed bright, and all the rustic 
furniture shining from the eflbrts of Grace’s hands — all 
showed the tasteful care, as well as cleanly habits of the 
tidy housewife ; and her person was as well attended -to 
as her house. 

The old neighbours found out that “sure and troth 
Grace Cassidy was full of conceit, to have her kitchen 
as illigant as the parlour in genteel houses, and her gar- 
den full of roses and other fine plants, just as if it was a 
gentleman’s garden. Sure, poor people didn’t want 
flowers ; they were only fit to devart the rich j-. who had 
nothing else to do with their money or their time ; but 
faith the pride of some people was mighty great, to be 
setting up for such grandeur!” 

Thus, what ought to have insured Grace the approval 
of her neighbours, excited only their enmity, as they 
considered her habits a reproach to their own. This 
feeling was increased by their jealousy at seeing the plain, 
solid, eight-day clock, brass warming-pan, gridiron, and 
frying-pan, that were presented to her by Mr. Forrester, 
in order that her Irish cottage should have all the appen- 
dages of an English one ; and they were heard to say, 
that “ sure there would be no living with Grace, now 
that she was setting herself up as a lady, with her clock 
instead of an hour-glass.” 


f 


12 


CHAPTER II. 

We may consider ourselves fortunate when we can acquire 
wisdom by seeing the consequences of error illustrated in the 
persons of others, instead of in our own.^* 

Every word which Patrick said, touched a chord that 
vibrated in the heart of Jim, and all the reflections and 
advice of Grace failed to produce an equal effect on his 
mind. Example is always more convincing than pre- 
cept, and this was never more exemplified than in the 
altered tone of feelings with which Jim Cassidy returned 
to his home. Both husband and wife deeply sympa- 
thized with the poor prisoner they had left, and the se- 
rene aspect of nature and the pure freshness of the air 
seemed, from the contrast of the heavy atmosphere and 
gloomy cell in which they had spent the last two hours, 
to be still more delightful. 

“ When will poor Patrick be at liberty to enjoy all 
that is now refreshing us?” said 'Jim. “ Och ! Grace 
ma-vourneen, when I think that I might-have been there 
in his place, and have seen you shut out from me as we 
were from Mm, sure it makes the heart sink within me.” 

“ But you forget, Jim dear,” replied Grace, “ that I, 
being your wife, should have a right to stay with you 
wherever you were, and therefore I’d be with you in 
that gloomy, narrow cell, for I have no child to keep 
me at home away from my husband. If poor Mary had 
no children she would be with Patrick, and then he 
would liot be so miserable, nor she neither.” 

“ That’s just like your own womanly heart, to think 
so,” said Jim ; “ but you don’t know the heart of man, 
ma-colleen : we are proud and obstinate : we are like the 
oaks of the forest, that stand in pride to resist the storm, 
and refuse to bend to it, till it strikes us to the earth ; 
but ye are like the delicate shrubs that yield to every 
breeze, and bend with it, so that ye are not destroyed as 
we are. If Mary was in that wretched hole of a cell, 


13 


she would be content because sbe was near him, and 
doing her duty ; but he would always be noticing the 
want of comfort around her, and dwelling on the disgrace 
of having brought her there, with the bitter thought that 
it was by not discharging his duty that they were both 
there : so unhappy as he is away from her, I think he 
would be more unhappy to have her there. Then, Grace, 
every man has a pride for his wife, and though he can 
bear up against the affronts he has brought on himself, 
he couldn’t bear to see her with turnkeys and bad people 
about her. A woman, that’s what a woman should be, 
is as misplaced in a prison as a beautiful fresh nosegay, 
the sight of which only makes one low-spirited, by. re- 
minding one of where it came from, and where it ought 
to be. One would like to keep the wife and the flowers 
for our own home.” 

“ Yes, Jim dear, I can understand a man’s thinking 
thus, but a woman never deems herself out of her place 
when she is comforting her husband. Sure, the very 
words, the holy words of marriage, says, they are never 
to forsake each other in sickness or in health, in riches 
or in poverty, and much more in sorrow ought they to 
be together ; but men are too apt, Jim dear, to treat wo- 
men as flowers, that are for sunshine and happiness,, 
instead of being charms in gloom and trouble ; whereas 
we are never so much at home as in comforting the af- 
flicted, and making those we love forget the cares and 
vexations that fall on all.” 

About this period news arrived that Donelly, who had 
fled for the murder of the policeman, had fallen a victim 
to a drunken quarrel with some of his reckless associates, 
and his aged father and mother, whose sole support he 
was, were now plunged in grief, with no consolation left 
them, but that, had he been arrested by the police, his 
life would have paid the penalty of his crime, with all 
the ignominy attached to such a death ; and from this ad- 
ditional misery, his scarcely less disgraceful, though less 
publicly disgraceful, death had saved them. Their poor 
neighbours flocked round to comfort them ; and the wor- 
thy rector, Mr. Disnay, afforded them ample assistance. 

VOL. II. 2 


14 


The unhappy parents, while receiving the generous 
stipend of Mr. Disnay, administered with no sparing 
hand, remembered with bitterness, that their unfortunate 
and guilty son had been one of the most active of the 
ringleaders in opposing the payment of tithes, and ac- 
knowledged how admirable was the creed of that religion 
which repays injuries with benefits. — “ Och ! Mich,” 
said the poor old woman to her husband, “ isn’t it a fine 
thing, and a wonderful thing too, to see Parson Disnay, 
and all his family, showing such favour-to us after all the 
harm and mischief our poor boy that’s dead and gone 
did to them and theirs? Well, God rest his soul and 
forgive him his sins ! sure he’d be now alive if he hadn’t 
followed bad advisers ; and it’s only the good pattern that 
Parson Disnay sets us, in forgiving all our poor boy did 
against him, that keeps me from going down on my 
knees to give my ten thousand curses to them Repalers 
that led our child astray.” 

Forgiveness acts as a salve to the w'ounds inflicted by 
unkindness, while revenge or rancour but serves to keep 
them unhealed. The Irish have not been taught to prac- 
tise this virtue (for a virtue it positively is, and for its 
perfection requiring many others) ; but, unfortunately, 
their passions, quick to be excited and as quick to be ap- 
peased, have ever been encouraged to keep alive the spirit 
of vengeance, as something praiseworthy ; while forgive- 
ness they are taught to consider as a proof of a mean 
spirit and a dastardly nature. So little were the poor 
and ignorant peasantry capable of appreciating the con- 
duct of Mr. Disnay and his curate, that the instances of 
their forgiveness of injuries, and repayment of evil with 
good, were sometimes reputed as indications of their 
cowardice, meanness, or cunning, or all three united ; 
and this opinion was entertained by a people eminently 
calculated by nature not only to appreciate, but to prac- 
tise the virtue they decried. It has been truly said, that 
“ happiness is but opinion but, alas ! we see exam- 
ples constantly brought before us that virtue is equally a 
matter of convention ; and the sister-country proves, that 
from ignorance and superstition, two giant fiends, be- 


15 


neath whose shadow all goodness becomes blighted, that 
which is most admirable in religion and morals may, 
even in the nineteenth century, be as undervalued as it 
is misundersto’od. 

In holding up Mr. Disnay and his curate as examples 
of the advantage to be derived to parishioners from seeing 
before them men whose lives accord with their profes- 
sions, we would not have it imagined that good clergy- 
men are wholly confined to the established church. We 
have known many excellent and worthy priests of the 
Roman Catholic religion ; but many of their tenets pre- 
cluded the possibility of their being equally serviceable 
to their flock; and above all, the Divine precept of “ Do 
unto others as you would they should do unto you,’* was 
never sufficiently inculcated or acted upon, to enable them 
to subdue the angry feelings or violent actions of their 
inflammable flocks. 

It augurs ill for any religion, when the persons who 
profess it act in open violation of its dictates. Murder, 
violence, and rapine, speak little in favour of the manner 
in which the powerful influence, supposed to be held by 
the Roman Catholic priests over their flocks, is wielded ; 
and the constant repetition of such atrocities must dispose 
all reasonable people to conclude, either that the priests 
have no power — the most charitable conclusion, or that 
the country where such outrages stain the national cha- 
racter, must have less religion than any other country on 
the face of the globe ; or, lastly, that the religion professed 
by the majority in Ireland is totally powerless in influ- 
encing their conduct or feelings — the chief and grand 
motive of all religion. We are told, and the statement 
is borne out by the accounts which every week reach us, 
that the priests are but as the tools of him who rules 
Ireland; whose sceptre is a firebrand, never waved but 
for destruction, and the ignition of the passions of his 
deluded followers. 

What can be thought of ministers of the Gospel, sent 
to preach peace and good will on earth, who lend them- 
selves to the furtherance of bloodshed, the violation of 
all laws, and the plans of those who oppose themselves 


16 


to the legitimate rulers of the land, tracking the path of 
rebellion by the blood of their victims ? Let us in cha- 
rity hope that the priests are powerless, that they only 
yield obedience to the reign of terror they'Mnnot resist, 
and that when the strong and mighty arm of the law 
shall have quelled the anarchy which has so long deluged 
Ireland in crime, they will show that what has appeared 
to be guilt, was only weakness, and lend their assistance 
to soothe angry feelings, and re-establish peace and good 
order. Let them, by their conduct, prove that the Roman 
Catholic religion never tolerates crime, whatever may be 
its object ; and we will be one of the first to render them 
justice. 


CHAPTER 111. 

“Are we not joinM by Heav’n? 

Each interwoven with the other’s fate ? 

Are we not mix’d like streams of meeting rivers. 
Whose blended waters are no more distinguish’d. 
But roll into the sea one common flood?” 

“ Domestic happiness, the only bliss 
Of Paradise that has survived the fall!” 


Each day since their union had served to render Co- 
lonel Forrester and his wife more tenderly attached to 
each other; a great similarity of tastes joined to excellent 
tempers, kept them in perpetual harmony, and the unde- 
viating affection with which Colonel Forrester attended 
to the comforts of Mr. and Mrs. Desmond, was a new 
bond of union between him and his excellent wife. She 
repaid it by the warmth with which she attached herself 
to his sister. Lady Oriel, and the sweetness with which 
she soothed the occasional moodiness of her Lord. No 
day passed in which the Desmonds did not congratulate 
themselves on the son-in-law whom Providence had given 


17 


them ; and as they marked the happiness of their daugh- 
ter, how did they rejoice in her choice, and in their ready 
acquiescence in it. 

Mrs. Forrester was now as ladies wish to be who love 
their lords ; and this circumstance seemed to complete 
the happiness of the whole family. “ How I hope it 
will be a son!” said Mrs. Desmond, “that it may be 
named after you,” laying her hand on that of her hus- 
band; “ it would give me such happiness to see another 
Walter Desmond as the future master of Springmount.” 

“ But, my dear,” replied Mr. Desmond, “ Forrester’s 
is as ancient a name as ours, and it would be ungracious 
to accept this compliment from him, of changing the 
name of his first-born.” 

“Well, well,” said Mrs. Desmond, “the truth must 
out, for I cannot keep this, the first secret that was ever 
between us, any longer. Forrester has told me that his 
first son is to be Walter Desmond, and that if God grants 
him a second, he is to be Forrester, with his English 
estate settled on him. All this he told me very soon 
after his marriage, but I won’t tell you what he said, 
when he prayed that his first-born might resemble you 
in every respect, for I should make you too proud.” 

“ The man who was honoured by your preference, 
and blessed by your affection for twenty years, my dear- 
est Louisa, must be already too proud to be spoilt by any 
other circumstance, however flattering; but I feel deeply 
sensible of the affectionate delicacy of Forrester, and 
think we may consider ourselves to have indeed drawn 
a prize in the lottery of life, in having secured such a 
protector for our child, and such a companion for our- 
selves.” 

The period had now arrived for the departure of the 
Desmonds and Forresters from Oriel Park for London, 
and they set out with regret from a place where they had 
passed their time so happily, and formed friendships 
which they felt would only terminate wiih their lives. 
The gentleness, and various powers of pleasing, which 
Lady Oriel so eminently possessed, had excited an affec- 
tion in the minds of her guests, which every day’s know* 


18 


ledge of her served to increase, and she repaid it with 
warmth and sincerity. Mrs. Desmond she loved and 
respected as a mother, and Mrs. Forrester she attached 
herself to as a sister; and as she had never known either 
of those precious ties, she yielded to the new feelings of 
affection which were developed in her sensitive heart, 
with all the tenderness that formed a part of her nature. 
In short, the united families presented the rare example 
of parting with increased regard, after having passed the 
difficult ordeal of a sejour of three months in a country- 
house, and looked forward with impatience to their meet- 
ing in London in a few days. 

Had Lady Oriel not been supported by the protecting 
presence of Mrs. Desmond and Mrs. Forrester, she dared 
not have contemplated her return to London ; and even 
with their support, she looked forward to it with dread ; 
her self-confidence was gone, and she felt that a look, a 
whisper, or a cold reception, had power to overwhelm 
her with confusion and dismay. The conduct of the un- 
feeling Lady Borrodaile at Keswick, had sunk deep in 
her mind, was often reflected upon, and never without 
bitterness, not towards the obtuse and ill-bred matron, 
but towards herself, for having so far forgotten her dig- 
nity as to have placed herself in a situation to be exposed 
to the rudeness of such a person. Had Lady Oriel 
known the motives of Lady 'Borrodaile^s conduct, she 
would have smiled in pity at what had pained her, for 
the impertinence of that lady had proceeded solely from 
jealousy and envy, at seeing her daughter overlooked 
whenever she was in the same society with Lady Oriel ; 
a circumstance that excited in the mind of the mother, a 
dislike to the fair and innocent cause, and which she 
seized the first opportunity that offered for displaying. 

Had Lady Oriel known that this female dragon of vir- 
tue, who pulled her daughter away from a contact with 
a suspected woman, was in the constant habit of bring- 
ing her in close intimacy with women relative to whose 
reputations suspicion had long been exchanged for cer- 
tainty, she would not have judged herself so severely as 
she had done. But, with the delicate susceptibility of a 


19 


pure and proud mind, she was more disposed to think 
favourably of the motives of others, than to find excuses 
for herself. Lady Oriel had yet to learn, that severity 
towards the errors, real, or supposed, of others, rarely 
proceeds from a love of virtue or detestation of vice, but 
are the modes in which jealousy and envy delight to 
avenge themselves for mortifications, of which, perhaps, 
she whose beauty or talents excite them, is the only per- 
son unconscious. An error in conduct may be over* 
looked, provided the sinner is neither young, beautiful, 
nor clever, the qualities which, alas ! most frequently 
lead to error, by exciting the admiration that prompts 
women to listen to the tempter ; but if she be handsome, 
or clever, or worse — both, then must she expect no mercy 
from her own sex, and make up her mind to console her- 
self with the occupation which talents never fail to give 
to those who cultivate them, and which always “prove 
their own exceeding great reward.” 

There are situations in life in which, because the evil 
qualities of our natures are not called into action, we be- 
lieve we have them not; and others, when, because the 
good qualities lie dormant, or are chilled by unpropitious 
circumstances, we imagine they do not exist. Alas ! 
human nature is a web of mingled yarn, where good and 
evil are so closely woven together that it is difficult to 
separate them ; one is sometimes more visible than the 
other, but both are to be found in all, the degrees differ- 
ing only in proportion to the excitement they find. 

Without the unfortunate dilemma in which Lady 
Oriel’s imprudence had placed her husband and herself, 
the defects of Lord Oriel had probably never been ob- 
served, for it was this circumstance that encouraged theiy 
growth. He had now become so dependant on worldly 
opinion for happiness, that he lost much of the native 
dignity of his character ; and Lady Oriel saw this defect 
with sorrow and self-reproach, attributing it to her own 
fatal imprudence. They left Oriel Park a few days after 
the Desmonds and Forresters had proceeded to London, 
and both entered town once more, with mutual fears for 
the future and painful retrospections of the past. 


20 


The Morning Post announced the arrival of the Earl 
and Countess of Oriel in Grosvenor Square ; and the 
same paper, among the fashionable parties for the week, 
announced a grand dinner for Wednesday at the splendid 
mansion of Mr. and Mrs. Desmond, and a ball for Fri- 
day, to which all the elite of fashion in London were in- 
vited. Lady Oriel found invitations for both ; and her 
brother, a few hours after her arrival, came to urge the 
necessity of her appearing at them. 

The dinner-party consisted of the Duke and Duchess 
of Heaviland, the Marquess and Marchioness of Bowood, 
the Earl and Countess of Grandison, and two or three 
distinguished members of the House of Commons. The 
party had been arranged with a view to introducing Lady 
Oriel into the circle to which Mrs. Desmond was most 
anxious she should belong — a circle wherein the aristo- 
cracy of reputation was considered to be versus that of 
fashionable exclusiveness — the one in which she had 
hitherto figured. 

Lady Oriel could not resist casting a glance at her hus- 
band, when Mrs. Desmond presented her to the Duchess 
of Heaviland, the only lady there with whom she was 
not acquainted, though her acquaintance with the others 
was but slight; and she observed that he anxiously 
watched her reception by a lady who was considered so 
scrupulous as to female propriety as the Duchess. The 
accueil was peculiarly gracious, because Mrs. Desmond 
had spoken highly of Lady Oriel. The evil reports in 
circulation she had never heard, or, if heard, had forgot- 
ten ; and, even had they been remembered, her know- 
ledge of Mrs. Desmond’s character and principles would 
have led her to disbelieve them. The other ladies be- 
haved just as they would have done in former days ; and 
after the first ten minutes of nervous embarrassment were 
over, the marked affection of Mrs. Desmond and Mrs. 
Forrester, with the manly and dignified bearing of her 
brother, who being deputed by Mr. Desmond to do the 
honours chez lui, and as host, directed much of his at- 
tention to his timid sister, soon placed her at her ease. 

In the drawing-room, during the soiree, the Duchess 


21 


expressed her desire to cultivate the acquaintance of Lady 
Oriel ; and a number of other ladies, who came in the 
evening, renewed with apparent pleasure their former in- 
tercourse with her. Lord Oriel observed all this with 
gratified feelings, and in returning home, remarked what 
an agreeable day they had spent ; a remark that elicited 
a smile from his wife, who, however satisfied she might 
feel at the flattering reception she had received on this 
her first entre into fashionable life since she had retired 
from it, had more than once mentally confessed, that it 
was the only dull day she had passed in the society of 
the Desmonds and Forresters. 

She had been enjoying such rationally happy evenings 
during their stay at Oriel Park, that she found it difficult 
to reconcile herself to the vapid amusements of balls and 
routs ; and she resolved that, if she was fortunate enough 
to recover her former position in society, so as to satisfy 
her husband’s susceptibility, she would confine herself 
as much as possible to the domestic circle, where she 
felt that true happiness could alone be found. 

Cards of visits and invitation came pouring in every 
succeeding day, to all of which Lord Oriel gave an atten- 
tion very unlike his former indifference. He had become 
excessively scrupulous as to the reputations of the ladies 
on his wife’s visiting list, and requested her to avoid two 
or three who were considered un pen leste, but who 
were generally received in society. Lady Oriel ventured 
to observe, that having suffered herself from the malig- 
nity of scandal, she thought it wrong to show more 
prudery than other ladies towards the persons in ques- 
tion. But he with a sigh answered, that it was this very 
misfortune that rendered it so much the more necessary 
for her to be scrupulous ; and though she felt the truth 
of the remark, it wounded her. 


22 


CHAPTER IV. 


London, the mart of luxury and pride. 

Where wealth the sceptre holds, and gold’s the guide 
That leads the crowd, while virtue, talent, sense, 

^ Must be their own exceeding recompense ; 

Here scandal finds an ever- willing ear, 

. And pity seldom sto'ps to drop a tear : 

On paper wings the piquant slanders fly. 

And sabbath morns see reputations die. 

False friends — true foes — alike press on to read 
The tale that dooms some victim’s heart to bleed. 

Here Fashion, motley goddess, changing still. 

Finds ready subjects to obey her will, 

Wlio laugh at nature and her simple rules. 

Because they are not form’d for knaves and fools. 

London^ a Satire. 

An invitation to dinner soon followed the visit of the 
Duchess of Heaviland to Lady Oriel, and this seemed to 
afibrd extreme satisfaction to her husband. Heaviland 
House was considered one of the last strong-holds of 
aristocratic grandeur that London boasts ; the style of the 
mansion, the extreme richness and solid beauty of the 
furniture, and the almost feudal splendour kept up in the 
• establishment, might well entitle it to this distinction. It 
was not more unlike the town mansions of the generality 
of our nobility, than were its owners. 

The Duke of Heaviland was a nobleman of high cha- 
racter, reserved and dignified manners, amiable disposi- 
,tion, and domestic habits. With a true taste for magni- 
ficence, he avoided all ostentation ; and though his 
immense fortune and high character gave him great 
weight, he took little part in public life, and contented 
himself with discharging the duties of his elevated sta- 
tion with scrupulous exactitude. He had filled the situa- 
tion of Viceroy, in Ireland, with impartiality and credit ; 
had visited the French court as ambassador extraordinary, 
and left behind him, in France, a deep impression of the 
splendour and hospitality of the English nobility, which 


23 


few were so well calculated to represent with dignity, as 
the Duke and his amiable Duchess. The Duke’s politics 
were high tory, and had always been so consistent, rea- 
sonable, and moderate, as to gain him the respect of all 
parties. 

The Duchess of Heaviland was exactly the wife suited 
to the Duke, and fitted to fill the high station she held. 
Sensible, mild, dignified, and perfectly unaffected, she 
pursued the even tenour of her way, avoiding all cliques, 
and confining her society to a select circle, as irreproach- 
able in morals as elevated in rank. No petty competi- 
tion, no political intrigues, no assumption of leading or 
driving the world of fashion, ever actuated the Duchess 
of Heaviland’s movements. She stood proudly aloof 
from the crowd, supporting with dignity “ her place of 
state,” respected by all, and beloved by those who had 
opportunities of knowing her. 

It was during her Grace’s sejour in Ireland, as the re- 
presentative of female majesty, that Mrs. Desmond’s 
acquaintance with her ripened into a strong and cordial 
friendship, and had since been maintained by frequent 
intercourse and correspondence. And it was at the de- 
sire of Mrs. Desmond that the Duchess cultivated the 
acquaintance of Lady Oriel, as hitherto, her Grace had 
rarely sought any intimacy with the members of the 
clique, to which Lady Oriel had formerly belonged, from 
their being, as she observed, too fashionable, and too gay 
for her sober habits. 

The gentleness and decorum of Lady Oriel’s manners 
had strengthened the favourable impression given of her 
by Mrs. Desmond, and each interview increased the 
Duchess’s admiration and good opinion of her. The 
Duke and Lord Oriel also formed an intimacy which 
brought them often together ; and the select and distin- 
guished guests whom the Oriels frequently met at Heavi- 
land House, all sought the acquaintance of Lady Oriel, 
who, as the constant associate of the Duchess of Heavi- 
land, soon became as recherchee in the best society,'as 
even her fastidious Lord could desire. Those who had 
formerly dropped off from her, now as eagerly sought a 


24 


renewal of her acquaintance, and she conducted herself 
so mildly and decorously towards them, that they ac- 
cused themselves of injustice, in ever having doubted 
her purity. 

This was a triumph to Lord Oriel, and seemed all that 
was requisite to his happiness ; his pride in his wife no 
longer humiliated, he became cheerful and gay, and a 
succession of recherche dinners, and brilliant soirees, 
once more enlivened his elegant residence in Grosvenor 
Square. 

The Desmonds and Forresters, to whom Lady Oriel 
owed her reinstatement in society, were delighted beyond 
measure at witnessing the happiness they caused ; and 
all was sunshine and gaiety in the two families, who 
never passed a day without meeting, and felt that each 
interview only rendered them mutually dearer. Colonel 
Forrester and his Frances made the house of Mr. Des- 
mond so agreeable, that it was quoted as offering the 
pleasantest society in London ; and the worthy pair 
seemed to grow young in witnessing the happiness of 
their children. 

Lady Oriel and Mrs. Forrester were at the Opera, and 
Lord Albany entered their box. “ I hope, ladies,” said 
he, “ that you are delighted with the ballet of Faust. 
You must admit that the music is as pretty as it is ori- 
ginal ; and the March, infernal as it is meant to be, is 
very line. I like the Opera better than any other the- 
atrical amusement,” contined Lord Albany; “the hour 
is more suited to one’s habits ; for really it is Men genant 
to be obliged to swallow one’s dinner, and drive off in a 
state of personal discomfort, to arrive when half the new 
comedy or tragedy is over, and be told that the most ef- 
fective scenes have passed. Then the sort of dinners 
one gets preparatory to a play — I think of them with 
horror ! To dine dans nne bonne maisoyx the day of a 
premeditated visit to the theatre, is out of the question ; 
so one is forced to hurry over soup and cotelettes, d la 
minute, at Crockford’s, at the risk of burning one’^ 
mouth; and drink wine half-iced, denying oneself the 
gentlemanly comfort of discussing a dessert ; and then 


25 


‘ to be taken (as the poetical apothecary’s label directs) 
and well shaken’ over the pave in a cabriolet, one is out 
of humour before one arrives, digestion is deranged, 
comfort destroyed, patience put hors de combat ; and, 
consequently, one is little disposed to judge favourably 
of the entertainment, and one leaves the theatre, vowing 
that we have now neither dramatic writers nor actors ; 
and all this because we have been derange, and that if 
we will not change our hours, so they will not change 
theirs.” 

“ But would it not be a good plan to go to the theatre 
without dining,” asked Lady Oriel, “ and sup after- 
wards ? by which means, all the disagreeable effects you 
have so pathetically deplored would be avoided.” 

Helas ! mes dames,"'' said Lord Albany, “I have 
tried that plan ; but it answers not. From going without 
dinner, one is apt to make a more substantial supper, and 
this banishes sleep. The ghosts of the murdered lamb, 
chicken, &c. sacrificed to our appetites, rise up in judg- 
ment against one, presenting even more hideous visions 
than those which murdered the slumbers of Macbeth.” 

“ How much more you men think of dinners than we 
do !” said Mrs. Forrester. 

“ I own that in general we do,” replied Lord Albany ; 
“ for la gourmandise is not a female vice. Still, who 
can deny that much of our comfort depends on our din- 
ners ? and he is therefore wise, who, reflecting that as 
we must dine three hundred and sixty-five days in the 
year, resolves to dine well, in order to spare the stomach 
and its poor dependant, the temper. I never dine with 
Lord Refton without feeling a happier and, I do believe, 
a better man for the rest of the evening; ‘ my bosom’s 
lord sits lightly on its throne,’ because the stomach is 
not weighed down with any ‘ perilous stuff.’ His plats 
are so delicious, so epure from all that is gross, that they 
can only send light and agreeable vapours to the brain ; 
and this accounts for his being always gay, spirituel, and 
amiable.” 

“ I know not if this be the cause,” said Lady Oriel, 
VOL. II. 3 




26 


“ but I am ready to admit the effect ; for Lord Refton is 
very agreeable and spirituel.'*' 

“ Oh ! I do assure your Ladyship,” replied Lord Al- 
bany, “ that my theory on this point is irrefutable. Good 
cooks make agreeable men. Only compare the most 
gifted conversationist, even Moore himself, after a dinner 
atRefton’s, or in an ordinary house with the same guests, 
and he would be no longer equally brilliant. I have 
thought of searching into history, to discover the mate- 
rials of which were composed the particular repasts 
eaten by the remarkable men of the last century the day 
of, or the day previous to, any remarkable action, as I 
am convinced it would elucidate my system. Only fancy 
what a load of responsibility would be taken off from 
poor human nature, by discovering that all our crimes 
proceeded either from a bad dinner or the want of a din- 
ner, and ascertaining that 

‘ When poor fellows go astray, 

Their dinners are in fault — not they.’ ” 

“ I must say, you talk con amove about dinners,” said 
Lady Oriel ; “ you would almost persuade one you 
thought of nothing else.” 

“ S-propos to con amore^ as beauty always is to 
hearts,” replied Lord Albany, “ who is that very hand- 
some woman opposite to us ? she might make one forget 
dinner and supper too.” 

“ That lady,” said Lady Oriel, looking at her through 
her glass, “ is the wife of our most popular writer, and 
is remarkably beautiful ; features, complexion, expres- 
sion, all are faultless. Mr. Desmond pointed her out to 
me the other evening as one of the very few perfect spe- 
cimens now to be seen of a beauty peculiar to Ireland : 
hair like the wing of the raven seen with the sun’s rays 
full on it, and skin white as the driven snow, with eyes 
of Heaven’s own blue. The lady comes of an ancient 
Irish race, and belies not her blood, which sends that 
mantling rose-tint to her cheeks, ‘ as if she blushed be- 
cause she is too fair.’ ” 

“ A mauvaise honte,^^ added Lord Albany, “ that few 




27 


ladies are guilty of for such a cause ! Look into the par- 
terre, and you will see talking together two of the men 
who have the most succeeded in fiction — Moore the poet 
and Lord Fableton. Both have made reputations from ' 
the exercise of the same power — imagination ; but such 
is the prejudice of society, that while one is admired and 
followed as a poet, the other is decried and shunned as 

a liar. Imagination, which is the Eldorado of the 

poet and of the novel-writer, often proves the most per- 
nicious gifts to the individuals who compose the talkers 
instead of the writers in society. How strange does it 
appear to casuists,” continued Lord Albany, smiling, 
“ that one man with his plume can soar into the regions 
of fiction, and gain immortality by a brilliant fable ; while 
another, using his tongue instead of a pen, and adhering 
to prose instead of verse, becomes stamped with the de- 
grading epithet of a liar, and all from a difierent use of 
the same faculty ! What a poet would my poor friend 
Lord Fableton have made, had he turned his inventive 
powers to good account, instead of being, as at present, 
considered an emulator of the Baron Munchausen !” 

“ I was present the other evening,” continued Lord 
Albany, “ at the reading of a poem from the pen of a 
celebrated author. ‘ What a brilliant imagination ! what 
invention !’ was repeated at every side ; and albeit unused 
to the approving mood, I was forced to yield assent to 
their well-merited commendations. I left Grosvenor 
Square duly impressed with the advantages of imagina- 
tion, and wishing that I, too, could find a ladder to mount 
into this palace of gold, and bear away even a little of 
its dust. With this feeling I entered White’s, and seated 
myself, inwardly invoking the aid of imagination, until 
my invocations were interrupted by the voice of my ima- 
ginative friend, Lord Fableton, who related tales and 
anecdotes which satisfied many of his hearers that he 
was in his anecdotage, and stated as facts the bright effu- 
sions of his brain. The past, present, and future, were 
equally and impartially misrepresented, and the poem I 
had heard read in the early part of the evening, contained 
much less invention than his conversation. No sooner 


28 


had he withdrawn, than the circle he had left commented 
most severely on his want of veracity. ‘ And this,’ 
thought I, ‘ is the reward of genius, and such is the |n- 
vidious distinction made between men of equal powers 
of imagination. One gains immortality by his pen, while 
the prejudices of society stamps my poor friend as a liar, 
only for having spoken his bright imaginings — he ought 
to have been a poet.’ — The young lady next the Irish 
beauty is the authoress of ‘ Romance and Reality,’ and 
of several exquisite poems, lull of imagery, and of a 
fancy that would not have shamed Hafiz himself.” 

“ I have read her novel,” said Lady Oriel, “ and think 
it exceedingly clever; the dialogue epigrammatic and 
sparkling, displaying all the freshness and gaiety of 
youth, with the observation of maturity.” 

“ How very well Lady Elsimore is looking this even- 
ing !” said Mrs. Forrester. 

“ She is very handsome certainly,” replied Lady 
Oriel; “ indeed so are all the family ; and I remember 
being particularly struck, when I saw her and her sister, 
the late Lady Usridge, for the first time, both fair and 
with an air so distingue and comma il faut, each ad- 
ding to the charm of the other ; indeed I never see the 
living sister without thinking of the lost one, the beauti- 
ful pendant that Nature gave her. Then in the box to 
the left, is the authoress of ‘ The Buccaneers,’ one of 
the best novels that has appeared for a long time, full of 
incident and interest, powerfully sustained and clearly 
developed.” 

“ When you visit Ireland, dear sister,” said Mrs. For- 
rester, “ you will be better able to appreciate the truth 
and beauty of this lady’s Irish Sketches ; they are por- 
traits from the life, and full of truth and beauty. The 
wife of one of my father’s tenants, Grace Cassidy, with 
whom I long to make you acquainted, is just the heroine 
for the graphic pen of Mrs. Hall, who alone could do 
her justice.” 

“ Mrs. Desmond has been telling me so much of this 
pretty peasant, this fourth Grace,” said Lady Oriel, 


29 


“ that I already take an interest in her, perhaps not the 
less because I hear she is as pretty as good.” 

“Who is that very pretty person opposite to us ?” 
asked Lady Oriel. 

“ That,” said Mrs. Forrester, “ is Lady Kidney, who 
turned the heads of all our Dublin beaux, without ever 
for a moment losing her own ; I never saw a young 
person so little elated by universal admiration. The 
lady leaving the box next Lady Kidney’s, is the autho- 
ress of, what shall I say, half the popular novels of the 
day, among which there is not a single failure ; her 
books give you all the sparkle of fashionable life, with- 
out any of its inanity, and her fecundity of imagination 
is as extraordinary as her facility of language ; she ap- 
pears never to tire herself, and certainly never tires her 
readers, for she is always brilliant and often profound. 


CHAPTER V. 

“ The world’s all title-page — there ’s no contents ; 

The world ’s all face ; the man who shows his heart. 

Is hooted for his nudities, and scorn’d.” 

“ Ce ne sont ni les lettresni les sciences qui nuiront jamais a 
I’energie du caractere. I.’eloquence rend plus brave, la bra- 
voure rend plus eloquent 5 tout ce qui fait battre le coeur pour 
une idee gen6reuse double la veritable force de I’homme, sa 
volonte. Mais I’egoisme systematique, dans lequel on comprend 
quelquefois sa famille comme un appendice de soi-meme ; mais 
la philosophie, vulgaire au fond, quelque elegante qu’elle soit 
dans les formes, qui porte k dedaigner tout ce qu’on appelle 
des illusions, c’est-a-dire le devouement et I’enthousiasme, voila 
le genre de lumi^re redoutable pour les vertus nationales.” 

“And so you advise me,” said the Duchess of Well- 
inborough to her Duke, “ to continue to visit Lady 
Oriel.” 

“ Decidedly,” said the Duke ; “if, as you say, you 
believe her to be innocent with regard to the scandalous 
reports in circulation.” 


3 ^ 


30 


“ But what will the world say 1 And if, as I suspect, 
a party is made against her, my single countenance can 
do her little good, and may do me much harm.” 

“ My dear Jane, I am shocked to hear such sophisms 
from your lips. The same mode of reasoning has 
ruined many a woman ; because while each of her 
friends, if friends such calculators might be called, stood 
aloof for /ear she should be the only female ready to do 
a kind and charitable action, the poor woman has fallen 
to the deepest depth of the slough of despond, plante by 
those on whom she reckoned in her hours of need ; 
whereas, if each individual had had moral courage, and 
gone to the rescue of her whom they believed guiltless, 
they would quickly have found others to follow their 
example. It is not the crime, but its consequences, that 
you all dread. Selfishness has taken the place of all 
natural feeling : you are willing to be on terms of inti- 
macy in society with those of your own sex, about 
whose conduct you cannot doubt, because they happen 
to be received, yet draw off in terror from some you 
loved, and do not suspect, because scandal has seared 
what vice could not sully. If you were all ignorant of 
the misconduct of those you continue to visit, I should 
hold you blameless ; and if you believed the scandal 
propagated against those you discard, I should consider 
you conscientious, but not cruel ; while as it is, I think 
you both, and so thinking, avow that selfishness and 
gross insensibility have demoralized you all.” 

“ How very harsh you are against the women !” said 
the Duchess, “as if they only were insensible and sel- 
fish.” 

“ Pardon me,” said the Duke ; “ I am willing to ad- 
mit that the disgusting defects 1 have named, are even 
more prevalent among men than women. With us, a 
man dare hardly perform a service, attended even with 
the semblance of the slightest personal sacrifice, without 
the risk of being held up to ‘ the world’s dread laugh,’ 
and being pointed at as an enthusiast, un tete foible, a 
man who is the dupe of the designing. All this is very 
dreadful ; for, be assured, when we are arrived at the 


31 


point of considering generosity, disinterestedness, and 
goodness, as proofs of weakness, we are not far from 
looking on their opposites as praiseworthy. Misfortune, 
however unmerited, and error, that existed only in ap- 
pearance, and never descended to reality, meet with few 
advocates at present ; while undoubted guilt, if upheld 
by circumstances, passes current in society : and. all this 
injustice proceeds alone from selfishness, as people are 
neither more severe nor malicious than formerly ; they 
are only influenced by the fear of injuring self. This is 
felt in the senate, in the clubs, in fact, in all places. A 
charge likely to affect the reputation of any individual, 
however unfounded or improbable it may be, is sufficient 
to annul friendships of long duration ; and former friends 
are content with hoping the charges may be untrue, in- 
stead of taking pains to prove them so. But en atten- 
dant, what could they do ? They could not act in 
opposition to the opinion of the world, and, therefore, 
the friend is sacrificed to the only friend of the egotist — 
self.” 

“ But as we cannot change the world,” said the 
Duchess, “ we must submit to it.” 

“ Yes,” said the Duke, “ on the same principle that 
you ladies spoil your femmes de chambre, and having 
rendered them tyrants, instead of useful servants, submit 
to the nuisances you have made. Each of you women 
of a certain rank forms a pillar that supports the artificial 
edifice, called the world of fashion. The pillars are of 
marble, substantial, and, alas ! cold, as well as polished ; 
but the edifice is but of gauze diaphane ; all that passes 
within is detected, as the gauze is too clear to conceal 
defects, though it shades slight spots ; and the pillars are 
considered, like those that supported the skreen at Carlton 
House in former days, as good columns, but supporting 
nothing.’'^ 

“ How very odd it is,” said the Duchess, “ that I 
should have fancied you would have rather approved 
than disapproved my leaving off Lady Oriel ! I suppose, 
then, you will no longer object to my receiving Lady 
Baskerton.” 


32 


contraire'^ said the Duke, “ I will never con- 
sent to it. This is the first error of which Lady Oriel 
has even been suspected. You disbelieve the charge, 
and so do I ; but admitting, for sake of argument, that 
she was not blameless, it is always charitable to look 
mildly on a first fault, because it prevents the recurrence 
of many another: besides, 

* To err is human, to forgive divine.* 

But when error is repeated, and that, as in the case of 
Lady Baskerton, — 

‘ The last lover’s welcome as the first,’ 

there can be no excuse for clemency. She has been 
warned by the oft-reiterated tales of scandal propagated 
at her expense, and should either have corrected the 
reality or the appearance that led to the rumours. You 
are unspotted in reputation, my dear Jane, and, therefore, 
can afford to be charitable to the erring or the suspected. 
This is one of the happy privileges of undoubted virtue, 
and the worst that can be said or thought is, that the 
undoubted virtue was naturally undoubting, one of the 
highest compliments that can be paid to your sex. The 
defalcation of such women as you, must pass the sentence 
of ostracism on Lady Oriel; and could you, believing 
her guiltless, be the means of injuring her?” 

“ I shall certainly call on her to-morrow,” said the 
Duchess; “for you will do me the justice of admitting, 
that I never oppose myself to your judgment.” 

“ But to return,” said the Duke, “ to the subject of the 
systematic selfishness that pervades society at present — 
I assure you, Jane, that it is distressing to witness it. 
In the senate, men are ashamed to give an elan to the 
noble and generous sentiments that animate them : at the 
bar, legal technicalities and satirical pleasantries super- 
sede the bursts of eloquence and feeling that formerly 
resounded from the barristers, in defending virtue or ex- 
posing vice ; and in society, men encounter each other 


> 


33 


armed against any display of high feeling, lest they be 
laughed at as enthusiastic or romantic, two terms now 
received as the acme of reproach and ridicule. I wish 
a few of us plain honest men would take courage, stand 
by each other, dare to avow our pretensions to generosity 
and manliness, and show that there is a still greater ridi- 
cule than that of being considered unselfish and unknow- 
ing — the ridicule of being ashamed of being neither. 
Madame de Stael profoundly observed, ‘ that there are 
many men received in the best society, who, if accused 
of a dishonourable action, would reply. It is possible that 
jthe action was ivrong^ hut, at least, no one dare tell 
' me so to my face' She adds, ‘ Nothing can convey a 
stronger idea of the utmost depravation ; for where or 
how could society exist, if people were to kill each other ; 
to have the right to do all the evil possible ; to break 
one’s word, and to lie, as long as it is not permitted to 
tell the person he has lied — in fact, to separate honour 
from bravery, and to transform courage into a means of 
committing or defending bad actions V It is thus, my 
dear Jane, that we lose the substance of all that is good 
and noble, and adhere only to the shadow ; and this is 
the most hopeless of all states. Few pause to ask, is 

Lady C or Lady D really culpable? the only 

question is, are they received? and if they are, they may 
continue to enjoy all the advantages of a good reputation, 
while they are universally known to have a bad one. 
Can any state of society be worse than that of receiving 
women, of whom nearly the whole of that society have 
the very worst opinion, and for receiving whom they can 
give no better excuse than that they are received else- 
where ? The same facility exists with our sex. I meet 
men continually in the best society, whose reputations 
have long ceased to be doubtful, and have heard jokes 
passed on their alleged want of principle in the houses, 
and by the persons who invited them. One of the many 
bad effects of scandal is, that its general extension accus- 
toms people to hear the most dishonourable reports, 
without being either much shocked or surprised. They 
think on these subjects as the French writer did on an- 


34 


other, when he said, ‘ Ce rCest rim sHl ne le salt pas, 
et pen de chose sHl le sail.'’ The scandal, if true, is now 
of slight importance, and if untrue, of less, provided the 
person incurring ii is supported by her clique ; and this, 
Jane, I call demoralization.” 


CHAPTER VI. 

“ Society itself, which should create 
' Kindness, destroys what little we have got: 

To feel for none is the true social art 
Of the world’s stoics — men without a heart.” 

“ But this is worshipful society. 

And fits the mounting spirit, like myself.” 

The Duke of Lismore, long the patron of arts and 
fashion, himself the nucleus of a circle round which were 
continually revolving all that was bright, fair, or gifted, 
now opened Lismore House; and Lady Oriel, the Des- 
monds, and Forresters, were amongst the first invited to 
the concert and ball, with which his Grace commenced 
the festivities of the season. Mrs. Forrester had been 
requested to chaperon Lady Lucy Forbes, a young female 
friend, just making her debut in the fashionable world, 
and as she joined Lady Oriel with her protegee, who was 
new to life, that is to say, “ Life in London,” the two 
ladies undertook to initiate her into a knowledge of the 
most distinguished members of fashionable society. 

“ Who,” exclaimed Lady Lucy Forbes, “ is that beau- 
tiful woman with the oriental face ? How lovely she is, 
and what an intellectual countenance !” 

“That,” replied Mrs. Forrester, “is the celebrated 
Mrs. Grantly, no less remarkable for her beauty, than for 
her genius and talents. Does she not look the very per- 
sonification of a muse? What a classical style of beauty, 
and how much expression is joined to that oval face, and 
those exquisitely chiselled features! how delightful to 


35 


witness such a rare union of beauty and genius ! Look 
at her deep lustrous eyes, bent in languor, as if she 
thought not how many were seeking to catch their re- 
cognition ; and now- look, she speaks, and raises those 
brilliant orbs as if to make us doubt which is most beau- 
tiful, their animation or their repose. Every line of her 
poetry is to me fraught with a recollection of her lovely 
face ; it haunts me, and is my very heau ideal of what 
a Corinne should be. For a long time, I was afraid to 
read the productions of Mrs. Grantly, lest they should 
disappoint me. I thought it impossible that great talent 
could be joined to so much beauty ; but I have learned 
to estimate them for their intrinsic merit, without any 
reference to their beautiful author; and it is no faint 
praise to say, ‘ the mind keeps the promise we had from 
the face.’ — That dark-haired lady with the fine expres- 
sive face, is the Countess of Guernsey: is she not bril- 
liant and sparkling? What eyes and teeth, and what a 
cream-coloured skin and richly animated tint on her 
cheek ! It was to her, or her portrait, that Byron wrote 
those exquisite verses lately published ; and it -was of 
her that the Emperor Alexander of Russia observed, that 
she had too much beauty for a woman who wished to 
derive no advantage from it. Her reputation has, how- 
ever, derived an advantage from it ; for she has proved 
the possibility of great personal charm's and high spirits 
being accompanied by a retenue of conduct that has 
defied even the suspicions of slander. Though an inde- 
fatigable leader of fashion, nay, by some considered an 
agitator, or dictator, she has escaped unharmed from the 
dangerous ordeal of female prudence, and ranks high in 
the list of unexceptionable wives and mothers.” 

“ Who is that tall, noble-loo“king man, with a forehead 
resembling the busts of Demosthenes, who is now talk- 
ing to Lady Guernsey ?” 

“ That,” said Lady Oriel, “is Lord Rey, the premier, 
does he not look formed to fill a high and important 
post? What a dignified air and distinguished bearing he 
has ! He seems the very personification of aristocracy, 
from his intellectual-looking head to his finely-formed 


36 


legs and feet. He is accused by many of being^er*, but 
the charge only arises in the accuser’s ignorance of his 
character. If he has Jierte, it is only that of a proud 
consciousness of his own high reputation ; and who would 
not be proud of it? See him with his family and friends, 
and it is impossible to meet a person more natural, kind, 
and unpretending. 

“ That fair, languid, handsome lady covered with 
jewels, is the Marcliioness of Stuartville. She was an 
heiress, which, in general, might serve for a synonyme 
for ‘ spoiled child but of how few spoilt children could 
it be only said, that her sole besetting sin is a passion for 
diamonds, if it be a sin ? and she excuses this by saying, 
that they are the only bright things that do not fade.” 

“ Oh ! pray tell me who that dull-looking man is, that 
has fixed himself on Mr. Luttrell, who appears to wince 
under the infliction ?” 

“ That,” said Mrs. Forrester, is a man, who, with- 
out any one qualification for shining in society, believes 
himself to have as many as Athenaeus thought necessary 
for the formation of a cook, when he states that a chef 
de cuisine ought to be a mathematician, a theoretical 
musician, a natural philosopher, and a natural historian. 

Mr. is only a natural-fool ; but, unfortunately, he is 

filled with pretensions, and consequently is a most tire- 
some personage. You observe that short gentleman near 
the Duke of Lenox ? He is the person of whom George 
the Fourth observed, on seeing him in uniform, that he 
must be a megalosaure, an antediluvian reptile, with pad- 
dles instead of legs, and clothed in mail.” 

“Our host does the honours extremely well,” ob- 
served Mrs. Forrester; “ how general his civilities are ! 
After all, politeness ought to be added to the list of the 
cardinal virtues, for how many of them depend on it! 
At all events, politeness makes us forget the absence of 
virtue, and the want of politeness its presence.” 

“What!” interrupted Lord Albany, who overheard 
the last sentence, “ moralizing in a ball-room ? and eulo- 
gizing virtue and politeness in a scene where only the 
semblance of both are tolerated ? Virtue, like a portion- 


37 


less beauty, has more admirers than followers ; and po- 
liteness, like love, is only approved when oneself is the 
object. I dare not remain to hear my aphorism refuted,” 
continued Lord Albany, gliding away. 

“ No, stay until I have replied to your aphorism by 
another,” said Lord Montagu, who joined them in time 
to hear the retreating peer’s observation ; “ and do not fly 
like a Parthian, throwing a dart as you retire.” 

“I fled, not from a dread of being refuted by you, 
Montagu,” said Lord Albany returning; “it was the 
ladies,” (bowing,) “that I feared; so now for your 
aphorism.” 

“ Remember,” said Lord Montagu, “ you depreciated 
politeness and virtue, and I say, ‘ Les esprits legers font 
beaucoup de mol, quand Us se melent de juger les 
sentimens, quHls ne sauraient comprendre."' ” 

“And I must reply,” said Lord Albany, laughing, 
“ that I am willing to be ranked in the list des esprits 
legerSi if you are in that des esprits forts and the 
laughing Albany retired, leaving Lord Montagu to con- 
tinue his persiflage. 

“ I have been pointing out the various persons who 
have passed before us to Lady Lucy,” said Lady Oriel, 
“and fear I have but ill-performed my task. I should 
have had your Lordship, or Lord Albany, to act as show- 
man, and then I am sure Lady Lucy would have had a 
piquant epitome of the character of each person.” 

“ That depends,” replied Montagu, “ on how the per- 
sons to be described stand with the world, for I confess 
that, from a natural indolence of disposition, I am rather 
disposed to think well of those who are well with the 
world, and vice versa, which verifies the proverb that 
‘ Lemonde est unjoueur, qiCon a toujours de son parti 
quand on gagne^ 

“ And I,” said Mrs. Forrester, “ am always disposed 
to doubt the justice of the sentences that the world passes 
on hearsay evidence, as I think the world a good witness 
on a trial, but a bad judge.” 

“One thing you must admit,” said Lord Montagu, 
“ which is, ‘ Si mechant que soit le monde, il ne nous 

VOL. II. 4 


38 




ferait pas grand mal si nous n'etions pas si souvent 
son complice^ ” And so saying, the peer passed on, 
leaving Lady Oriel to reflect on the truth of the axiom, 
and to apply it to her own peculiar case. 

“ On ne connait hien tout VHtndue d'un malhmr quo 
lorsqu’on s'en accuse” thought Lady Oriel to herself, 
as she recurred to the past ; “ I cannot blame the wwld 
for wounding me with the arms which I presented to it. 
The fault was all my own.” 


, CHAPTER VII. 

Les gens vertueux sont rares, mais ceux qui estiment la vertu 
ne le sont pas ; d’autant moins qu’il y a mille occasions dans la 
vie, oil I’on a ab'soluinent besoin des personnes qui en ont. 

Marivaux. 

Lady Oriel observed, and the reflection sank deep in 
her mind, that all the charity shown in drawing favoura- 
ble conclusions on her recent esclandrCj emanated from 
those who were pure and unsuspected themselves, and 
who judged her by the criterion of their own hearts. In 
no instance had she met with slights from a woman of 
undoubted virtue ; while, on the contrary, she had expe- 
rienced various indications of rudeness from ladies who 
had been compelled to profit largely by the charitable in-' 
terpretations pul on their conduct, and who, feeling how 
little they merited the forbearance shown them, were 
disposed to believe that she too stood in a similar posi- 
tion. 

* It is fortunate for the sinning, that there are many good 
and virtuous people in the world, otherwise how could 
one half of society meet the other ? The vulgar phrase 
of set a thief to catch a thief, would be more than veri- 
fied by the instinctive tact with which certain errors 
would be detected and exposed by those who had known 
them by personal experience ; confidence would be de- 
stroyed, bejpause one of its best guards, a belief in virtue. 


39 


would no longer exist ; and medisance, which always 
prevails in proportion to the degree of corruption in so- 
ciety, would become general. 

The trial Lady Oriel had passed through, determined 
her on never again living in habits of intimacy with la- 
dies whose reputations w'ere too apocryphal to admit of 
their judging with charity, or supporting a tottering 
friend. 

Among the acquaintances she now sought to cultivate, 
the wife of the Premier, and the Marchioness of Bowood, 
were distinguished. The first lady, from the high official 
station of her husband, was called to take a lead in so- 
ciety which her domestic habits had hitherto led her to 
decline, though her various accomplishments and digni- 
fied manners peculiarly fitted her for the post of honour. 
Lady Rey was always cited as an example for mothers 
and wives ; and her daughters emulated her virtues. 
Married in early youth to a nobleman no less distin- 
guished for his high character than for his brilliant and 
solid talents as a statesman, and who sought for happi- 
ness and repose from his political duties, where only it 
can be truly found, in the bosom of his family, — the do- 
mestic circle of Lord Rey had become proverbial for the 
exhilarating example it furnished of harmony and rational 
enjoyment. Even he, the supposed misanthropic poet, 
whose sarcasms have touched all circles, and spared none, 
never recurred to the family of the Premier without com- 
mendations whose warmth proved their sincerity ; and 
he has been often heard to say that one such family 
might reconcile even a sceptic to the belief in virtue and 
goodness. 

No wonder, then, that Lady Oriel was anxious to be- 
come something more than a guest at the grand recep- 
tions of Lady Rey, and that she desired to be admitted 
to the more select reunions, — a distinction that was soon 
accorded her. 

The Marchioness of Bowood had long been on visit- 
ing-terms with Lady Oriel, who rarely missed any of the 
soirees at Bowood House ; and the amiability and kind- 
ness of its owners, so generally felt and acknowledged, 


40 


had given a peculiar charm to its society. In the splen- 
did gallery at Bowood House, filled with the finest pro- 
ductions of art, might, during the season, be seen all that 
London could boast of rank, genius, and talent. States- 
men, poets, wits, authors, and artists, were here to be 
met, enlivened by a galaxy of female beauty, furnishing 
subjects of inspiration for the chisel or the pencil, or 
realizing the dreams of the poet. Nothing could be 
more judicious than this blending of society ; and the 
soirees at the Marchioness of Bowood’s were considered 
to offer more various attractions than those of any other 
house in London ; the very locale of the splendid suite 
of rooms assisting to give a charm to them. 

“Pray look, Lady Lucy,” said Lady Oriel, “ and tell 
me if England has not reason to be proud when she can 
show such specimens of beauty as those in that circle ; 
no other capital in Europe could, I am sure, produce 
them.” 

“ Who is that handsome woman,” asked Lady Lucy, 
“whose eyes outshine the diamonds on her brow? How 
very lovely she is ! and how completely aristocratic is 
the character of her beauty,— delicacy supported by con- 
scious dignity, and Jiette softened by feminine mildness 1” 

“ That,” replied Lady Oriel, “ is the young Duchess 
of Lenox ; and that distinguished-looking woman on 
whom she leans, and who displays pearls, when she 
smiles, that rival the oriental ones on her neck, is her 
sister, the Marchioness of Burton. What a fine ani- 
mated expression of countenance, fierce, and almost stern 
in its expression when grave, but beautiful when she 
smiles. They are the daughters of the Marquess of 
Mona, and are justly considered one of the handsomest 
families in England. Of them indeed it may be said, 
‘ all the daughters are virtuous, and the sons brave.’ That 
lovely blonde, who is speaking to the Marchioness of 
Burton, is the Lady Augusta Garing. Is she not the 
personification of a poet’s bright imagining, blooming as 
Hebe, and almost as celestial ? Purity and innocence are 
enshrined on that fair brow, and the fairy foot that peeps 


41 


forth from her robe, might serve as a model to the 
sculptor.” 

“ She is indeed most lovely,” replied Lady Lucy ; 

and so is that lady now entering.” 

“ That is the Marchioness of Glansicarde,” said Lady 
Oriel. “ Is not talent marked in every lineament.of her 
beautiful face ? But how could it be otherwise with the 
daughter of such a father ? at least, according to my be- 
lief, that talent is hereditary. The two ladies at the door 
are Lady Yesterfield, and her sister, Mrs. Branson. 
They might serve to personify the morning and evening 
stars ; both charming, and yet unlike each other. Their 
family are remarkable for beauty, and I understand equally 
so for goodness. That handsome woman is Lady Eme- 
line Hart Burtley, a young poetess of much brilliancy 
atid imagination. Her poetry resembles the exotic pro- 
duction of warmer climes ; bright, luxuriant, and fanci- 
ful. The lady next her is a has-bleu, in the best accep- 
tation of the phrase, being not only highly learned, but 
full of talent. Mathias, than whom no better judge can 
be found, pronounces her the best Italian scholar of our 
day ; and her translations of Petrarca are the best I know. 
Lady Norely, who is now speaking to Lady Lacre, is 
another of our literary ladies, and is remarkable for the 
sprightliness of her wit and the soundness of her under- 
standing.” 

“ You are very kind, dear Lady Oriel,” said Lady 
Lucy, “ to have told me the names of all these beauties 
and bas-bleus, therefore I won’t be so exigeant as to ask 
you to name the other lovely faces I see around. They 
look like 21. parterre of the richest and rarest flowers, 
each rendering the other more beautiful by its vicinity.” 

“ How pleasant it is,” said Mrs. Forrester, “ to rest 
the eyes on such an assemblage of beauty ! and yet there 
is something melancholy too in the pleasure ; and I could 
almost weep, as did Xerxes when he contemplated his 
soldiers, as I reflect how fleeting are the charms which 
now dazzle our eyes, and that a few years will have 
faded their lustre ! There is something very touching 
in the wreck of beauty ; it is difficult to believe that the 
4* 


42 


silken tresses, starry eyes, cheeks of rose, lips of coral, 
and teeth of pearl, now before us, may be sought for in 
vain, some years hence.” 

“We must only console ourselves,” replied Lady 
Oriel, “ with hoping to find a successional crop of beau- 
ties, the daughters of those now before us, springing up 
to take their places. Are not the roses of this summer 
as fresh and blooming as those of the last? and do we not 
look forward to seeing the next vernal season bring forth 
as bright ones ? So it is with beauty — as fast as one 
race fades, another succeeds ; and it is only eyes dimmed 
by age, which discover that the last are inferior to the 
first, for contemporaries deny this decline.” ' 

“ There are many specimens of the florid gothic here,” 
said Lord Dorville, joining in the conversation, “ that 
would confirm your last remark, Lady Oriel, which I 
inadvertently overheard, and which proves the truth of 
the old proverb, ‘ that listeners never hear good of them- 
selves,’ for I am old enough to have lost every trace of 
humanity, as far as externals go, and yet I passed in my 
day for what the ladies call a very pretty fellow. You 
look very incredulous, fair ladies,” said the fine old peer ; 
“ but I refer you to your grandmothers, and to-a certain 
portrait, by Sir Joshua Reynolds. I come to assemblies 
like this once or twice a-year, and go home comparing 
notes between the beauties of the night and the beauties 
of forty years ago. On dit que les absents out toujours 
tort, and I believe it is so, for I find myself quite as well 
satisfied with the faces before me,” (bowing to them,) 
“ as I ever was with the beauties that charmed me in my 
youth, though the turbaned dames newly restored and 
varnished, whom I meet in the salons, observe to me 
how the present race have degenerated, and call on me 
to furnish evidence of the superiority of the first, to the 
present, every look of theirs rendering the comparison 
almost ludicrous.” 


43 


CHAPTER VIII. 

Would you fashion’s temple see ? 

Lovely ladies, come with me. 

There you’ll find what’s rich and rare, 

All that can adorn the fair ; 

Di’monds from Golconda’s mine, 

Em’ralds, rubies, sapphires shine. 

Sending forth a thousand rays. 

Or concentered in a blaze ; 

JLaces, satins, velvets sheen. 

That might deck the proudest queen ; 

All for lovely woman sought. 

From remotest regions brought.” 

Lady Oriel and Mrs. Forrester having promised to 
take Lady Lucy Forbes shopping, conducted her to 
Howell and James’s, in Regent-street, an establishment 
that astonishes a novice in London more than any other, 
and which quite bewildered the youthful Lady Lucy. 

“ What a delightful place !” said she ; “ what exqui- 
site things ! Do you not come here very often, dear 
Lady Oriel ? Oh ! I must buy that wreath ; it looks as 
if the morning dew still trembled on its leaves, it is so 
fresh and blooming.” 

Lady Oriel, amused with the unsophisticated raptures 
of Lady Lucy, told her that she dared not come very 
often to Howell’s, for fear of making her too proud of 
belonging to a sex, in whose honour was raised such a 
temple. Behold,” added Lady Oriel, “ the zephyry 
laces, more ^delicate than the finest web that the hapless 
Arachne ever spun, and diaphane gauzes from France, 
ethereal as the drapery of the cloud that deceived Ixion. 
See the rainbow- tinted chintzes and muslins, with the 
soft-textured silks and satins of England. The velvets 
of ‘ Genoa the superb,’ the delicate poplins of Ireland, 
the cambrics of Scotland, the treasures of the Indian 
loom ; the brilliant gems of Orient dazzling the sight, 
and the perfumes that ‘breathe of Araby the blest’ 


44 


stealing on the senses from their crystal prisons ; the most 
remote regions ransacked to bedeck us, and the produc- 
tions of all climes brought to adorn us. All this,” continued 
Lady Oriel, laughing at her own description, and the gra- 
vity with which Lady Lucy listened to it, “ is calculated 
to impress a woman with too great an idea of the im- 
portance of her sex, for whom alone this splendid pile is 
reared, and therefore I do not indulge myself often by 
coming here.” 

“ And I,” said the artless Lady Lucy, “ should like to 
come every day, even if I had not the power of buying, 
merely to look at such beautiful things as I see around 
me.” 

“You remind me,” replied Lady Oriel, “of the naive 
question of a clever English child to her mother in Ve- 
nice, on seeing the Place St. Mark for the first time. 
‘ Pray, mamma, are people allowed to see this every 
day, or only on holidays V ” 

The rooms at Howell’s were filled with handsome and 
well-dressed women, all admiring and admired ; and the 
suite where the jewellery is displayed, exhibited a 
“ chosen race of fashion’s favourite sons,” examining the 
bijouterie^ and deciding on the relative merit of turquoises 
or sapphires for buttons ; or whether a Trichinopoly or 
Maltese rose-chain was the most distingue for the even- 
ing. At one counter was a young lady with her mamma, 
choosing her first ball-dress, and in deep consultation 
whether it should be virgin white or couleur de rose ; 
and at the next were two pale and melancholy-looking 
women, selecting grey and black for their second mourn- 
ing for a mother. 

Lady Oriel and Mrs. Forrester both mused on the re- 
flections the scene around them gave birth to, but Lady 
Lucy could do nothing but wonder and admire ; and 
when music stole on her ear, and advancing to the place 
whence it proceeded she saw an exquisite clockwork 
group of Chinese musicians, and a rope-dancer perform- 
ing evolutions, and pointing the light fantastic toe with 
a precision worthy of Monsieur Paul himself, there were 
no bounds to her childish delight, and she stood quite as 


45 


amused as the beautiful children who were near her, ap- 
plauding the graceful dancing and perfect time of the 
Chinese. “ Happy age, when everything can please I” 
thought Lady Oriel. “ How long will it be ere this fair 
creature has learned to look on all that now enchants her 
as coolly as I do ? May she at least be spared the lesson 
that has for ever removed the veil of enchantment from 
my eyes, and never have to accuse herself of the folly 
which has purchased my worldly wisdom !” 

“ I thought,” said Mrs. Forrester, “ that this establish- 
ment had been peculiarly dedicated to ladies ; but 1 see 
here all the young men of fashion about town ! Do they 
come to admire the ladies, or the scarcely less beautiful 
objects of taste around?” 

“ Both, I would charitably suppose,” replied Lady 
Oriel. “ How busy they all seem ! That group of young 
men are selecting waistcoats of tints as various as the 
minds of the buyers, and which, ere a week has passed, 
will be adopted by all their set. Another are choosing 
brocaded satins for their robes de chambre ; and the sen- 
timental are debating whether a bracelet or a ring would 
be the most appropriate cadeau to the ‘ Cynthia of the 
minute’ of their fancy. Husbands come here to select 
peace-offerings for petulant wives, or souvenirs for ten- 
der ones ; lovers to bear away some gage d' amour to 
les dames de leurs pensees ; brothers to buy gifts for sis- 
ters, and sons for fond mothers ; and many a young man 
to purchase milles jolies choses for the person dearest to 
him on earth, whose image, reflected in the glasses 
around, shares his admiration with the pretty things he 
is selecting; need I add, that person is — himself? Fo- 
reigners are more surprised at -the magnificence of this 
establishment than at any other in London,” continued 
Lady Oriel. “ I once accompanied some French ladies 
here ; and they were so astonished at the display of 
riches at every side, that they could not for an hour 
pause to select the articles they came in search of. I 
remember one of them observed to me, that if Paris had 
such a house, half the husbands would be ruined, as 


46 


French ladies cannot resist temptation as the prudent 
English do.” 

It was not without repeated hints that Lady Oriel and 
Mrs. Forrester could get Lady Lucy away ; and she left 
Howell’s declaring that, now she found it was not dearer 
than other houses, and had so much more b^utiful 
things, she never would go into another ; holding up her 
empty purse in triumph, the contents of whicli had fur- 
nished her with, as she. said, fifty of the loveliest, most 
useful, and tempting things, when she thought that twice 
the sum could not have purchased half of them ! 


CHAPTER IX. 

« Ye gods! ye gods! and must I hear all this — 

And not e’en Joseph’s arithmetic miss. 

Nor Gobbet’s speech, to prove the rich and great 
The working-classes wrong, defame, and hate— 

And, for a few good speakers, that are seen, 

‘ Like angel visits, few and far between,’ 

To break the dull monotony around. 

And give us sounding sense, not senseless sound— 

To hear night after night, and curse my fate. 

The same weak arguments and long debate?” 

St. Stephen's. 

Lord Oriel, Mr. Desmond, and Colonel Forrester, 
agreed to go to the House of Commons, to hear the debate 
on the Irish Bill. On their way. Colonel Forrester pro- 
posed a wager to Lord Oriel, as to how many times within 
half an hour the two words “ the people'^ would be used 
in the first speech of a repealing member. , 

This led to Mr. Desmond’s observing, that these two 
words, though so continually used, never failed to pro- 
duce a certain effect. “ Joined together,” said he, “ they 
have a magical influence that rarely fails to draw atten- 
tion, and acts as a claptrap to the lower classes of the 
community, as does some liberal sentiment introduced 


47 


into a dramatic performance and addressed to the gallery; 
both are in general used for the worst purposes, and how 
seldom for any good ! Does a democrat wish to excite 
a tumult and draw attention, as a means of attaining 
some object of egotistical ambition, to gratify which the 
peace of his country would be readily sacrificed by him ? 

‘ the people’ is the watch-word for revolt ; and repeated 
with due emphasis, gains him a crowd of idle followers, 
too lazy to work, but not ashamed to steal ; who throw 
up their hats, and give him their ‘ sweet voices !’ — the 
why or wherefore, they can hardly tell. Does a drama- 
tic writer bestow his tediousness on a suffering audience, 
anticipating the fate of his maudlin production ? he sprin- 
kles it over with a few liberal sentiments, addressed to 
popular feeling, in order that the applause of the gallery 
may drown the disapprobation of the boxes and pit. 
Thus are the people and liberal sentiments made the 
tools of those, who never use them except for their own 
private ends, and who deride the folly by which they 
profit. It was truly observed by a French writer, that 
the people are always the instruments, and always the 
pretext, but never the object in, a revolution; and the ter- 
mination of every revolution has proved the truth of this 
observation — the people, who are the many, being sacri- 
ficed for the benefit of their democratical leaders, who 
are the few.” 

They arrived in time to hear Mr. jManly make his 
admirable speech — a speech that positively electrified 
the House ; and to witness the discomfiture of him, whose 
equivocating defence filled with disgust a nation accus- 
tomed to reverence veracity too deeply ever to shrink 
from its laws, whatever may be the consequences. Mr. 
Desmond had not been at the House of Commons for 
many years, consequently many of the faces of the mem- 
bers were unknown to him., but Lord Oriel undertook to 
point out the most remarkable of them. 

“That tall, thin, distinguished man, with a forehead 
that would have enchanted Gall or Spurzheim, I need 
not name to you, as every one knows Sir Francis Rams- 
bury, and I may add, every one esteems and respects 


48 


him ; he is an admirable speaker, and, what is better, 
an admirable man. The person next him, you of course 
know ; he is your Secretary, Mr. Manly, a man of 
great talent and power, and formed to take a leading part 
in political life. He has all the requisites for a public 
man : high personal and mental courage, strict princi- 
ples, and eloquence that never degenerates into bombast 
or hyperbole ; he is always listened to with attention in 
the House ; and the man whom one of the Irish mem- 
bers denounced as the most unpopular man in Ireland, 
has the consolation of being one of the most respected in 
England. It appears that the office of Irish Secretary, 
which certainly, however it may be a post of honour, is 
decidedly a post of danger, may now be considered as 
the trial for young men of high talent. We have had 
three examples of remarkable men who have filled it ; 
the Duke of Wellington, Sir Robert Neil, and the pre- 
sent occupant; and three such predecessors must al- 
ways incite a successor to distinguish himself. By the 
by, there is Sir Robert Neil ; I hope he may speak, as 
few know Ireland so well as he, and none can describe 
what has once come under his observation more forcibly, 
eloquently, or truly. He is an able man, and a perfect 
master of business ; much too clever and useful, not to 
make me wish he was employed. Such men as Sir 
Robert Neil, who have great stakes in the country, are 
the safest to be employed in steering the bark of the 
state ; and we have too few, who to great talents unite a 
large fortune, to spare the services of such a one, whose 
opinions carry so powerful an influence with the sensi- 
ble part of the community, and who, having much to 
lose, cannot be suspected of being disposed to risk it by 
hazardous measures. That tall, gentlemanly-looking 
person, who has just entered, is Mr. Hutler Lerguson, 
the warm and eloquent defender of the Poles. And 
there at his left you see the gifted author of a series of 
novels, any one of which must obtain for their author a 
literary fame, rarely accorded to any author, but more 
particularly to one of his years, and still more rarely 
merited. That gentleman he is talking to, is his brother. 


49 


a highly-gifted young man. The two gentlemen to the 
right are Mr. Errice, the brother-iii-law of Lord Rey, 
and Mr. Makaully. The first is a most clever, sensible 
man of business, and the speeches of the other tell you 
better than I can, what his powers are. The Agitator, 
of course, you know by sight — there he is ; his counte- 
nance is good, and peculiarly Irish ; his voice well suited 
to the powerful bursts of eloquence with which he inun- 
dates his auditors ; and it must be admitted, he is one 
of the most effective speakers in the world, as he daz- 
zles where he cannot convince ; and though he often 
leaves Reason free, he makes captive the Passions, 
which but too generally prevent her using her free- 
dom.” 

“You should see the effect of his eloquence on the 
Irish,” said Mr. Desmond ; “ it is magical. When he 
said a day or two ago that he represented Ireland, it was 
not so hyperbolical, as the expression borrowed from 
Louis XIV. by Napoleon, when he said, ‘ Je suis la 
France r He represents the whole Roman Catholic 
population of the lower class, for they only see, hear, 
believe, act, or think, as the Agitator tells them ; or 
rather should it be said, they represent hiin^ being but 
the instrument of his will, wielded as he thinks fit. I 
wish Mr. Thiel would speak, though, perhaps, it may 
be as agreeable to read his speech, as to hear him deli- 
ver it. His mind is so imbued with poetry, that it comes 
forth without effort, nay, as it were, malgre lui, and his 
images are so poetical and forcible that one cannot help 
wishing they were embodied in a poem or tragedy, in- 
stead of in a speech. Thiel is a man of genius, and I 
am one of the many who wish that all such were ad- 
dressing posterity by the midnight lamp at home, instead 
of addressing St. Stephen’s, as it is easier to find good 
speakers than good writers ; and of the best speeches 
that have been made on popular topics, how few will be 
read ten years hence ! I never come here,” continued 
Mr. Desmond, “ and hear the plaudits bestowed on any 
of the popular speakers, without reverting to other days, 
when Pitt, Fox, Grattan, Sheridan, and Canning, were 
VOL. II. 5 


wont to electrify the House. How often have I heard 
them, and owned the magical influence of eloquence 
kindled by genius. It seems to me as if the plaudits 
given to their successors awaken the echoes in the 
house of death so near us ; and that from their very 
tombs is sent forth a reverberation, to cheer others in the 
path in which they strove. From St. Stephen’s to 
Westminster Abbey the distance is short, but the road is 
difficult : and those who have traced it so gloriously, led 
on by genius, and supported by principle, sleep calmly 
the sleep of death, unmoved by all that could once ani- 
mate their glowing souls, within a few paces of the 
scene of their past triumphs. What a contrast between 
the scene of turmoil and worldly cares before us, — the 
passion-stirring harangues, and the angry rejoinders, — 
and the awful silence of the house of God, where reposes 
all that was earthly of those deathless souls !” 

Lord Oriel, seeing that the old man was moved with 
the reminiscences he had called up, and fearing the ex- 
citement might be too strong, proposed to leave the 
house, and they returned home. 

Colonel Forrester escorted Lady Oriel and his wife to 
Vauxhall, thinking that the more his sister was seen in 
public at the present crisis, the more advantageous it 
would be in checking the injurious reports circulated 
about her. Lords Montagu and Albany joined them ; 
the latter declaring that he had come to walk off the 
possible eflecls of a most inimitable dinner at the mo- 
dern Lucullus’s, Lord Refton, where one was sure to 
dine in the salon of Apollo. 

“ You, Forrester, understand a dinner,” said Lord 
Albany, “ and therefore I wish you had partaken of that 
which we enjoyed to-day.” 

“ Do pray, Lord Albany, instruct us novices in the 
mystery of la cuisine,'' said Lady Oriel, “ and tell us 
what you consider a good dinner ; and, if not imperti- 
nent, may I ask you to give us the menu of that which 
has elicited your commendation ?” 

“ I am proud and flattered by the request,” said the 
peer. “ Indeed I take a pleasure in seeing a taste for the 


51 


table extending, and in forwarding this rational taste as 
much as I can, by judicious praise when merited, and disap* 
probation when otherwise. Hitherto it has been a gene- 
ral observation, that the English know how to eat, but 
not how to taste, — a reproach that almost stamps us as 
barbarians. A faultless cook was not only meant to 
satisfy the appetite, but to excite it ; whereas our bar- 
barous Anglais look more to quantity than quality, and 
are satisfied with thinking they are eating French 
dishes, when they are devouring some entrees that no 
gargotier on the Boulevards at Paris would acknow- 
ledge. But to return to Refton’s dinner — he had la 
bisque cVecrevisse bien liee sans etre tournee, rivalling 
that of the Rocher de Cancale ; le potage printanier, 
tout verdoyant de fraicheur, Veternel turbot et la sauce 
d^hoQuard qui faisait ressortir sa blancheur, et qui de- 
voit lui rappeler le corail qu'il avoit quittee nouvelle^ 
ment, tel que sa fraicheur Vattestoit.'*^ 

“ You really get poetical in your description,” said 
Colonel Forrester; “hitherto I have been of opinion 
that poetry proceeded from the heart, but I now begin to 
think it may originate in a neighbouring region.” 

“ My dear Forrester, if you interrupt me, I shall 
never get to the end of my menu,'' said Lord Albany. 
“ Le filet de boeuf etonne de son deguisement a la Na- 
politaine. Le quartier de clievreuU, fache d'etre mar- 
ine, pour etre presentable, et vexe de s' etre nourri 
d'herbes aromatiques en pure perte. Les filets de 
volaille a la Roy ale. Les boudins a la Richelieu : les 
cotelettes de pigeon a la Dusselle, la timbale a la finan- 
ciere. Entrees parfaites qui attestoient et le gout exquis 
de V artiste, et les finances de I'hote. I have obeyed 
you. Lady Oriel, and almost fear that 1 have bored you 
too, as I have observed that in eating, as in all other 
sciences, it is necessary to discuss it con amore. But 
en verite, when I think of the vast obligation that this 
most admirable and useful of all the sciences owes to 
Refton, under whose fostering care it is daily extending, 
I am apt to grow enthusiastic.” 

The party were amused with the affected gravity with 


52 


which Lord Albany dwelt on the subject, and Lady Oriel 
promised that next season she would consult him in the 
choice of an artiste de cuisine^ as otherwise she should 
be afraid of inviting him to dinner. 

“ Jlpropos to dinner,” said Lord Albany. “ A man 
is now passing, whom I cut last year for two reasons — 
first, that I found it easier to cut him than his fricandeau, 
which was impenetrable to the spoon, and the barbarian 
advised me to try a knife ; the second, that the Goth had a 
puree de truffesi Imaginez vous, a substance that should 
be croquante, served as puree I There was no speaking 
to him after such a solecism in civilization. I shall never 
forget the dinner he gave us that day; Soupe a la reine, 
tournee; fish, guiltless of having seen its native element 
for weeks ; vol au vent, qui auroit impunement affronte 
le vent d'est, les escalloppes de lapereau qui, eomme dit 
Boileau, sentoient encore les choux dont Us furent 
nourris, and the impenetrable fricandeau, before named. 
I always judge of a man by his dinners ; and as they are 
the only things emanating from him that I can profit by, 
if they are good, I cultivate his friendship, if bad, I bow 
out of it, as no man ought to demand the sacrifice of hig, 
friend submitting to starvation or indigestion because he 
chooses to keep a bad cook. All men past twenty-five, 
and most men under it, seem to think — 

‘ Their v'arious cares in one great point combine, 

The business of their lives, that is — to dine.* 

* So much superior is the stomach’s smart. 

To all the vaunted horrors of the heart.* ** 

“ What a strange creature is Albany !” said Colonel 
Forrester, as they drove off from Vauxhall. “ To hear 
him descant on the mysteries of the cuisine, one would 
suppose that he thought of nothing else, and yet he is, 
perhaps, one of the best-informed men in England, full 
of talent, and with powers of being satirical, from the 
lightness and plaisanterie of his coup de pattes, that few 
ever possessed without abusing ; but he is so thoroughly 
good-natured, that, unlike the generality of wits, he pre- 


53 


fers his friends to his jokes, and suppresses many a one 
calculated to set the table in a roar.” 

“ This is a great merit,” said Lady Oriel, in an age 
when people attend so little to the feelings of others, and 
think more of making a reputation for wit than they 
regret unmaking the reputations of half their acquaint- 
ance, for one is very often the consequence of the other.- 
Half the plaisanteries that do so much mischief, and 
give so much pain, proceed less from malice than from 
the desire to shine ; and this desire is so general, that 
people attempt to say sharp things, who can only say 
coarse ones. It is like endeavouring to cut a hard sub- 
stance with a paper-knife ; the intention obvious, but the 
effort is unsuccessful. If, therefore, those who have 
really power to shine at the expense of their friends and 
acquaintance, use it not, they have double merit, and the 
more so, because the world seldom gives them credit for 
their forbearance.” 

“ It is strange,” said Mrs. Forrester, “to see satirical 
people so well received in society, even by those who 
suffer the most from them.” 

“It is precisely because they fear to suffer still more, 
that they act the aimahle'’' said her husband ; “ but of 
this be assured, that if satire was not universally accepta- 
ble, we should have fewer satirists. The very persons 
who affect to be shocked at some cutting epigram, pointed 
lampoon, or piquant anecdote, are the first to engage the 
author, or to repeat the effusion with a moral disclaimer, 
of ‘ How very shocking it is !’ ‘ How ill-natured !’ and 

a hope that ‘ there was no foundation of truth in it.’ ” 

“ Why, my dear brother,” said Lady Oriel, “ where 
can you have formed such opinions of the world ?” 

“ In the world, my dear sister,” replied Colonel For- 
rester ; “ and be assured, there is wisdom in the old 
proverb. 


‘ Chi pensa male spesso Pindovina.* ** 

“ I shall grow afraid of you,” said Mrs. Forrester, 
with a glance, in which less of fear than love was visL 
5 * 


54 


bJe,” as I shall begin to think you judge from self, and 
if you judge so harshly of the world, with such opinions, 
you cannot love.” 

“ Ungrateful that you are,” said the adoring husband, 

“ Cara al mio cuor tu sei, 

Cid ch’6 il sole agli occlii miei.” 

She placed her white and dimpled hand on his mouth, 
to stop the continuation of his address, and he kissed it 
fondly though she affected to chide him. 


CHAPTER X. 

** Think on mercy! 

Mercy ! the brightest diadem of empire ! 

Mercy I that does distinguish men from brutes, 

And kings, that use it right, from common men.” 

“ The good are better made by ill — 

As odours crush’d are sweeter still!” 

When we read the fearful catalogue of crimes that the 
Irish newspapers are filled with, it is difficult to believe 
that the people committing them can have any of the 
good qualities with which we love to invest the Irish. 
Bravery, for which they are proverbial, is ill shown by 
the most barbarous murders ; and generosity, to which 
they are certainly not without claims, is not visible in 
the revengeful spirit that is but too often displayed in 
the vengeance with which they visit real or supposed 
offences. And yet they are brave, and generous, not- 
withstanding the enormities into which they are hurried; 
for their crimes, paradoxical as the opinion may appear, 
are but the excesses of the qualities we have named, and 
which, if cultivated, would produce flowers and fruit in- 
stead of poisonous weeds. 

Ignorance is the bane of the Irish peasant ; it leaves 
him open to the tyrannical mental empire of those whom 


55 


interested motives may lead to usurp it ; and, unguarded 
by principles, the only true barriers for resisting evil 
counsel or example, with excitable feelings, warm ima- 
ginations, and no judgment, he falls a ready victim to 
their designing arts. 

“Don’t you think, Jim dear,” said Grace, “that it 
would be a good thing to write a line” (as a letter is al- 
ways called in Ireland) “ to Miss Desmond that was, to 
ask her to spake a word to the dear ould masther, in fa- 
vour of poor Patrick. Sure, if they were to transport 
him, ’twould be a terrible thing ; 1 won’t let myself think 
that they would do worse than that to him : but the no- 
tion of his being taken away from Mary, now that 
his eyes are open to his own folly, makes me very un- 
aisy. Miss Desmond, that is Mistress Forrester, would 
put in a good word to the ould masther, and the masther 
would spake to the King, and ask him to write to the 
Lord Liftenant to let poor Patrick out of jail. Oh ! this 
is a good thought, and a lucky one, and I’ll write the 
letter before I sleep. Mistress Forrester is too good to 
refuse spaking to the masther. She was always kind : 
and now that she has a loving husband of her own, she’ll 
feel more than ever for a poor creathur of a woman that’s 
in danger of losing her’s. The ould masther will never 
refuse her, for he is always glad to do a kind action ; and 
as for the King, I’m not a bit afraid of his refusing the 
masther, for every one says he has the best heart in the 
world. The only one I’m afraid of is the Lord Lifte- 
nant, for he being on tlie spot in Ireland, and seeing with 
his own eyes all the wickedness and mischief the foolish 
misguided people commit, won’t be so aisy on the pri- 
soners as the others ; but I don’t think he’ll refuse the 
King, if he writes him a line — and then we’ll have poor 
Patrick home again with Mary.” 

“Sure, Grace a-vourneen,” said Jim, “the Lord 
Liftenant couldn’t in dacency refuse the king, who’s the 
head of all, like : and he himself, the Lord Liftenant I 
main, is one of the most forgiving, grand-hearted men 
in the world, so he’ll be sure to send down a pardon if 
he’s asked,” 


56 


Grace and Jim made a detour^ that they might visit 
poor Mary Mahoney, and found her better and her boy 
much less feverish. She was filled with thankfulness at 
the good accounts of her husband ; but still the love of 
the woman triumphed over the prudence of the wife, as 
she expressed her hopes that poor dear Patrick wouldn’t 
take it too deeply to heart, nor blame himself too much 
for their trouble. Grace assured her that Patrick now 
had a perfect sense of his own imprudence, adding that 
they found him reading his Bible, the salutary effects of 
which study were already visible in his altered senti- 
ments. 

This last intelligence gratified Mary beyond measure. 
“ This is indeed,” said the poor woman, “ happy tidings 
for me, for I know by experience the comfort that blessed 
book will give him. Many and many’s the weary and 
sorrowful hour that I have been relieved by reading it, 
when poor Patrick first took to following the Repalers, 
and that I fell into fretting. I never opened it blit that 
the words fell on my heart just like, as they tell me, oil 
falls on the sea, making it quite calm. And sure, how 
can I be thankful enough for knowing how to read, 
which opened this blessing to me ! How often have I 
lamented that poor Patrick was not reading it with me ! 
But just see the goodness and mercy of Providence, that 
out of every trouble can make good : Patrick is taken up 
for a crime of which, God be thanked ! he is innocent ; 
and the separation from me, and the death of our poor 
infant, has turned his mind to the only true comfort that 
can be found. There he is, in that solitary cell, reading 
the word of God, and fixing his thoughts on Him in 
whom alone is safety ; and I am thankful that his eyes 
are opened, though at the price of so much grief.” 

Grace Cassidy lost no time in addressing Mrs. Forres- 
ter, or Miss Desmond, as she still loved to call her, and 
the next day’s post saw the following letter despatched : 

“ Most Honoured Lady, 

“ In all my troubles, and I have lately had my share, 
you have always appeared to me as the guardian angel 


57 


that was to save me. I do not now address you for my- 
self, as, God be thanked, Jim 'has grown wiser, and I 
trust will never again give me cause for unhappiness. 
But Patrick Mahoney is pining in a prison, and his poor 
wife, Mary Mahoney, is lying on the bed of sickness 
and sorrow, having lost one child ; and the rosy-cheeked 
curly-headed boy whom you and the dear mistress used 
to admire, is dangerously ill, while the loving husband 
and fond father is kept away from them. 

“It is in your power, dear and honoured lady, to 
extricate him from the doleful cell in which he is now 
shut up, with no other company but his own sad 
thoughts, and his angry conscience always reminding 
him that, had he followed good advice, he would now be 
at home with his wife and child. I pity Patrick even 
more than poor Mary ; because her conscience has not 
fallen out with her, and must be saying comforting things 
in the midst of all her troubles ; and sure, dear lady, it 
is a blessing to have a companion which we never can 
be rid of, like conscience — a friend, instead of a foe. 

I thought of all this when I saw how she bore her 
troubles, and laid her dead baby in the coffin, with a look 
which I never can forget ; it seemed as if she had found 
courage and consolation from a voice within her own 
mind ; and sure enough, that voice must come from con- 
science. But when I saw the care-worn face of poor 
Patrick, and the tears falling down his pale cheeks — and 
oh ! for certain, ’tis a bitter sight to see a man weep — 
quite as different to the tears of a w'oman, as an April 
shower is to the pelting drops that are forced from some 
black cloud by the winter’s storm — I thought to myself, 
dear and honoured lady, that it was a blessing when we 
had only to weep for misfortunes ; but that the scalding 
tears wrung from us by our faults, if they leave their 
marks on the cheek, leave more fearful marks on the 
heart from which they spring. 

“ Patrick is accused of being concerned in the murder 
of a policeman ; he is entirely innocent, God be thanked! 
but he says, that if he had not been in the constant habit 
of leaving his poor woman, and being out at unseasona* 


58 


ble hours in the night, he would not, he could not, have 
fallen under such a bad suspicion. What I beg of you 
to do, is to get the dear ould masther to spake to the 
King ; every one says he is a good, humane, tender- 
hearted gentleman, and to ax him to write a bit of a line 
to the Lord Liftenant, to let Patrick home to his poor 
wife. 

“ What makes me so anxious at this present moment 
is, that the Irish Laider has been writing to tell us that 
the soldiers are going to be let loose on us, like blood- 
hounds, and that instead of being tried by judge and 
jury, prisoners are to be judged by young officers come 
from school, who would rather condemn ’em than not. 
I don’t much believe all this, but still it frightens us ; so, 
for God’s sake, send the ould masther to the King at 
once. Or may -be ’twould be as well for yourself, dear 
lady, to spake to the Queen, for women are always ten- 
der-hearted, and can pity each other, and she’d spake to 
the King, or may-be write to the Lady Liftenant to get 
poor Patrick off. 

“ Sure it would be a good thing, and a great service 
to Ireland, if the ould masther would ju^t tell’the King, 
that the quiet and dacent people in Ireland — and there’s 
many more of ’em than is supposed — are afraid of their 
lives of the wicked disturbers, that are bent on mischief, 
and are ready to kill, maim, or destroy all who won’t 
join ’em. Many’s the poor men that goes with ’em 
through fear of losing their lives, or having their houses 
burned over their heads ; but if once they had soldiers 
and officers to take their parts, would give up all nightly 
meetings and disturbances, and sleep in peace. 

“ Another thing that frightens the poor people here 
out of their wits is, that they are tould that there’s six 
hundred — I won’t write the bad name — in the Parlia- 
ment Commons, that’s determined to do ’em mischief. 
Until now they thought the English was their friends, 
and they had confidence ; but you know, dear lady, how 
aisy it is to make a poor Irishman believe anything. My 
-own poor honest husband was made to believe he was a 
slave and starving, when he was at liberty to attend all 


59 


agitation meetings in the country, and had aten a hearty 
dinner off as elegant a piece of salt pork, as red as a 
rose, with cabbage like the green leaves of young trees, 
so fresh and bright, and potatoes laughing out of their 
skins for joy at being aten. 

“ How I wish you were all over here now ! The 
place is so beautiful, the sky looks more blue than ever, 
and the river more clear ; and as for the trees and flow- 
ers, sure they’re as bright in their freshness, as if they 
came out spic and span new for the first lime, though 
we’ve now been looking at ’em, and a pleasant sight it 
is, for the last six weeks. The birds are singing on 
every branch, and more blackbirds and thrushes than 
ever ; and I’m sure the English birds can’t sing more 
sweetly, nor the flowers smell more delightfully, than 
they do at Springmount ; though all the world declares 
that everything in England is finer than here. 

“And now it’s time for me to finish this long letter. 
I know your goodness so well, that I’m sure you’ll par- 
don my boldness in writing it ; and yet when I think 
how many long miles ’twill have to go over, and the 
wide green sea to cross before your own pretty eyes will 
look at it, I don’t feel half so courageous as when I used 
to be tould to walk up to Miss Desmond’s room at 
Springmount, and that I used to tell you all that was 
passing in my poor ignorant mind. But here, you had 
woods, and mountains, and flowers, and green fields, 
about you, and seemed as fond of ’em as I am, which 
gave me courage to spake to you ; for I used to say to 
myself, sure the young mistress, great a lady as she is, 
lovds all that I love, and therefore I needn’t be afraid to 
open my heart to her ; but now you are in London, with 
only great large houses, and Lords and Ladies about 
you. I’m almost afraid you won’t feel the same to your 
poor country-woman, who is ever your obedient humble 
servant, 

“ Gracc Cassidy. 

“ If not too great a liberty, might I beg my humble 
duty to the dear masther and mistress ?” 


60 


Poor Grace’s letter was read aloud at the breahfast- 
table by Mrs. Forrester, and though many passages in 
it elicited a smile, the simplicity and single-heartedness 
of the good young woman, drew commendations from 
all. 

Mr. Desmond observed to Colonel Forrester, that the 
naivete of Grace, in requesting that the King might be 
entreated to write to his Majesty’s representative in Ire- 
land in favour of Patrick Mahoney, reminded him of the 
Roman Catholic custom in Italy of praying to God to 
influence their patron saint ; and it would be difficult, if 
not impossible, to persuade Grace, that the Lord Liften- 
ant, as she calls the Viceroy, is not in Ireland a more 
powerful person than the King himself. 

Instead of obeying Grace’s desire of addressing the 
King, Mr. Desmond wrote to the two most influential 
magistrates in his county to interest themselves for poor 
Patrick, and make his innocence manifest — a proceeding 
she would have thought much less advisable than that 
which she counselled ; as Grace, in common with all the 
persons of her own class in Ireland, entertained an im- 
plicit belief that interest, and not justice, was the best 
thing to be sought ; or rather, that the latter could only 
be obtained by the former. 

A disrespect for the laws hffs long been prevalent in 
Ireland, and has led to the certain and injurious effects 
of a scepticism in justice. A criminal entertains a strong 
hope that the interest of his landlord, or some one else 
whose interest can be obtained, will save him from the 
merited punishment of his crimes ; and the innocent, 
though conscious of his freedom from the guilt imputed 
to him, is “afraid he’ll suffer, for sure he has no interest 
to get him out of his troubles.” The demoralizing effects 
of such a state of things is best proved by the actual con- 
dition of Ireland, where law and justice are supposed to 
depend on power and interest. 

“ Well, what if I did give Jack Brohy an unlucky 
blow, that knocked the breath out of his body, and sent 
him to sleep in the church-yard, instead of his bed, sure 
the masther can get me off ; he knows all them that will 


61 


be on the jury, and they wouldn’t like to affront him by 
finding me guilty. And does not he know the judge 
himself? sure they all go to eat their grand dinner at the 
great house.” 

This is the way of reasoning and thinking of the lower 
classes in Ireland ; and until they are taught to respect 
the laws, and look with confidence for justice, there is 
little hope or prospect of their amendment. 

Every day’s post brought Mr. Desmond letters from 
his agent and steward, filled with alarming accounts of 
the increasing tumult and disturbances in his county ; 
many of the houses of his tenants had been attacked, and 
plundered of arms ; threatening notices had been served 
on all disposed to pay tithes, or take farms at a higher 
rent than the former tenant paid. The steward stated, 
that the English bailiffs of several of the gentlemen in 
the county had received notices to quit their situations 
or prepare for death, and that he feared he should shortly 
receive a similar one, from the indications of wrath and 
ill-will he saw in persons around him. . 

When Mr. Desmond communicated the contents of 
these letters to Colonel Forrester, the latter told him that 
he thought it w^as their positive duty to return to Ireland, 
and endeavour, by their presence, to restore tranquillity 
at least to their own immediate neighbourhood. While 
admitting the propriety of the measure, Mr. Desmond 
sighed at thinking how little inducement his native coun- 
try held forth, even to the best-disposed of her gentry, 
to make it their permanent residence, when he, who had 
done violence to his taste, in abandoning the society of 
his English friends and connexions from a sense of duty, 
and never placing himself on the decried list of absentees^ 
found himself no longer beloved or trusted by those to 
whom he had been an indulgent landlord and kind pro- 
tector for so many years. 

When Mrs. Desmond and Mrs. Forrester were made 
acquainted with the intention of their husbands to return 
to Ireland, they declared their determination of accom- 
panying them ; though both the gentlemen proposed their 
continuing in England, being fearful of exposing them to 

VOL. II. 6 


62 


the dangers of a country in a state of turbulence almost 
bordering on open rebellion, as Ireland was represented 
to be. The gaieties of London Mrs* Forrester could 
abandon without a sigh, but she felt the deepest regret 
at the thought of being separated frbm Lady Oriel, to 
whom she had become fondly attached ; though she was 
comforted by the reflection, that they should leave her 
re-established in society, and her husband no longer suf- 
fering from either slights or indignities offered, or sup- 
posed to be offered to her. 

When the ladies drove to Lady Oriel’s to acquaint het 
with their approaching departure for Ireland, they found 
her with Lord Oriel, to whom she had been complaining 
of the fatigues, mental and personal, which she was suf- 
fering in consequence of the continued round of gaieties 
and constant late hours to which she had lately been 
exposed; and he was admitting that she looked ill and 
languid, and wanted rest. 

No sooner had Mrs. Desmond announced their in^ 
tended departure, and her deep regret at their approach- 
ing separation, with her hope that at some period Lord 
and Lady Oriel would come to Ireland and see the future 
estates of their brother, than Lady Oriel, stealing a sup- 
plicating glance at her husband, exclaimed, “ Oh ! how 
I wish that we were going with you ! how delightful to 
see the Lakes of Killarney, and the fine woods and 
mountains that dear Frances has been telling me so much 
about!” 

Mrs. Desmond expressed how much gratified her circle 
would feel at such a visit, and Lord Oriel, to the joy of 
all, declared his willingness to accompany them to Ire- 
land as soon as they pleased. 


63 


CHAPTER XL 

“Wealth is the magic wand that makes all fair, 

However foul it might have been before; 

It hides deformity, gives youth to age, 

Makes dullness bright, and blockheads pass for wits ; 
Nay, glosses o’er our crimes, and gilds our vices. 

There are but two things wealth can never do. 

Give happiness, or add one hour to life.” 

Old Play. 

It was arranged that Lord and Lady Oriel should 
accompany the Desmonds and Forresters to Ireland, and 
that they should leave London in a fortnight, to allow 
time for having Springmount put in readiness for their 
reception. 

They were all invited to a grand fete at Mr.Vernon’s, 
whose wealth and splendid style of living made him a 
conspicuous character; who, though sneered at by the 
beau monde, as un nouveau riche, and a parvenu, yet 
found his dinners, soirees, and balls, attended by all the 
individuals the most a la mode in that beau monde. 

The influence of wealth over those who can never, in 
any way, benefit by it, is as extraordinary as it is gene- 
ral ; and in no way is this more clearly proved than by 
the facility with which a supposed millionnaire finds 
himself established in the aristocratic circles in London 
on something even more than on equal terms ; as there 
is a pretension and purse-proud assumption in a parvenu 
that leads him to take liberties in retaining the position 
he has usurped, which a nobleman would never dream 
of practising. 

The fete to be given by Mr. Vernon w.as expected to 
be the most brilliant of the season, and rumour, with her 
hundred tongues, was sending forth inflated descriptions 
of the preparations making for it. Temporary rooms, 
and new conservatories, were to spring up as if by the 
hand of enchantment, and all the flowers of all the gar- 


64 


deners around London were commanded: nay, it was 
almost insinuated that a fine night was also commanded; 
for what is it that wealth is not supposed capable of ac- 
complishing? and that of Mr. Vernon was boundless. ^ 

While all London, which means the fashionable part 
of it, were anticipating the fete^ let us take a peep at the 
givers, and, Asmodeus like, display the feelings that 
actuated two persons supposed to be amongst the hap- 
piest in London, it being the received and established 
opinion that wealth can buy happiness as well as other 
rare things. Were the interiors of many a mansion, 
where riches most abound, laid open to our view, we 
should discover the fallaciousness of this belief — a belief 
that forms no part of the creed of those who possess this 
envied wealth, though many have sacrificed youth, health, 
and affection to attain it, discovering, alas! too late, that 
it cannot insure that for which they have toiled. 

SCENE THE MORNING ROOM OF MRS. VERNON.— A CONJU- 

GAL TETE-A-TETE. 

“ How often must I repeat to you, Mrs. Vernon, that • 
you m.ar all my projects, by the extreme civility of your 
manner? I carefully observed your reception of our 
noble guests yesterday, and blused for the humility so 
apparent even in your curtsies. You were so little at 
your ease, and so thankful to your company, that you 
appeared more like the hostess of an inn, receiving the 
gentry of her county, than the mistress of one of the 
most splendid mansions in London, and the wife of one 
of the richest capitalists.” 

“ I am sorry,” replied Mrs. Vernon meekly, “ that I 
have failed to meet your wishes. I am, as you know, 
naturally of a timid disposition, and feel myself embar- 
rassed among so many strangers. ^ Besides, not having 
been in my youth accustomed to such elevated society, I 
cannot shake off a certain degree of shyness, when I see 
myself surrounded by persons of such importance, and 
hear announced the titles of individuals of birth, whom 
I never expected to know but by the newspapers,” 


65 


“ Pooh, pooh — that is all nonsense ; recollect, that if 
the persons you now mix with have birth and rank to 
pride themselves on, (and proud and insolent enough are 
our aristocracy disposed to be, for these advantages) we 
have the aristocracy of wealth, which gives power and 
influence, and which we must make them feel, by re- 
ceiving their advances with a careless politeness, which 
shows that we are by no means elated by them, but re- 
ceive them as a right, not as a concession. My son 
quoted Bacon to me the other day, as saying that know- 
ledge is power. This I deny; wealth is power; every 
day proves it ; and this. Bacon seems to have known as 
well as I, or why did he not content himself with know- 
ledge, of which I admit he had a good stock, without 
seeking wealth by means which, if we believe his con- 
temporaries, were not always strictly honorable ?” 

“If you allowed me to differ in opinion with you,” 
said Mrs. Vernon, in her usually gentle tone, “ I should 
say that I think our aristocratic friends much less haughty 
than the generality of our acquaintance. It appears to 
me, that their positions in society being established, they 
are not compelled to remind people of their claims, and 
consequently are more at their ease, and allow others to 
be more so, than our less elevated associates, who are 
continually making efforts to retain the places they have 
usurped.” 

“You are wrong, quite wrong,” replied the obtuse 
husband. “ The very ease you talk of is a proof of their 
insolent nonchalance, as the French call it, and is to me 
much more offensive than all the self-important airs of 
the Davisons, Rowlands, and all the other millionaires on 
whom those great Lords and Ladies affect to look down, 
and receive at all their grand parties, only because they 
are rich. Defend me from the condescension of your 
people of fashion ! I know them, Mrs. Vernon, I laiow' 
them.” 

“Then why seek them?” asked the wife quietly. 
“With your opinion of them, their society cannot con- 
tribute to your happiness.” 

“ Will you never understand me, Mrs. Vernon? Why 

e* 


66 


did I toil for years, why risk the fortune so hardly 
earned, in speculations that might have beggared me, but 
to gain power, and to confront those proud Nobles face 
to face, making them feel that there is a still higher, 
prouder aristocracy than theirs, that of wealth. Yes, I 
do make them feel this, and they hate me for it. Those 
on whose estates I have heavy mortgages, or who have 
political views which my interest may forward, are all 
civility. But look at the supercilious politeness of those 
who stand in neither of the predicaments I have named ; 
observe the affected indifference with which they view 
my pictures, statues, gold plate, in short all that in their 
hearts they covet. And can you then wonder, that though 
I seek them because their presence administers to my 
vanity, I detest even while making use of them?” 

Mrs. Vernon sighed, but answered not; experience 
had taught her that her gentle reasoning fell unheeded on 
the ear of her selfish and wilful husband, or only served 
to provoke harsh observations on her want of knowledge 
of the world and proper spirit. 

“ Recollect, Mrs. Vernon,” resumed the husband, 
“ that I will neither have your sister nor my brother, nor 
their sons and daughters, invited to our fete. This I am 
decided on ; I will have none but the very dite of fashion, 
as the newspapers term it, as nothing is so vexatious as 
to hear people asking the names of those, they meet no- 
where else, and to know that these unknown individuals 
are our brothers, sisters, nephews, and nieces.” 

Mrs. Vernon ventured to remark, that were their rela- 
tions to be seen three or four times, all questions would 
cease ; but her husband casting a half angry, half con- 
temptuous look at her, repeated his decision, that they 
should not be invited, and quitted the room, leaving his 
good-natured wife deeply pained at the mortification she 
must inflict on relations who were dear to her, and whose 
society constituted her chief enjoyment. 


67 


CHAPTER XII. 

*‘Vous demandez comment on fait ces grandes fortunes? 
c’est parcequ’on est heureux. Des qu’on est dans le fil de Peau, 
il n’y a qu’Ji se laisser aller. ” 

Mr. Vernon, commenced his career as a merchant 
with a good capital, a cool and calculating head, a heart 
that had so little influenced his actions, or feelings, that 
not only his friends, but himself, almost questioned its 
existence, and a sound stomach ; the indulgence of which 
formed one of his principal sources of enjoyment. He 
passed the days of his youth untempted and untempting, 
until chance threw into his path Miss Bosville, the daugh- 
ter and coheiress of a rich city banker, and to this cir- 
cumstance, and not to her beauty, accomplishments, or 
amiable qualities — and she was rich in all these — did she 
owe the preference that Mr. Vernon professed, when he 
sought, and, aided by her father’s advice, won her hand. 

The well-established reputation for exactitude and cau- 
tion Mr. Vernon had gained in business, joined to his 
wealth and regularity of conduct, had won the approba- 
tion of Mr. Bosville ; and as there was nothing disagree- 
ble in his appearance, and as he assumed a softness of 
manner calculated to please the young and amiable person 
he sought as a wife, she soon yielded to his suit, and in 
her twenty* third year became the wife of Mr. Vernon, 
who was ten years her senior. 

With little of the romantic in her feelings, and a less 
than usual portion of the imagination that falls to her 
sex, Mrs. Vernon possessed an affectionate disposition, 
an equal and sweet temper, great good sense, and an un- 
deviating gentleness, joined to a natural timidity, which 
lent a grace to her manners and rendered her peculiarly 
formed to make an excellent wife and mother, and to be 
the focus of attraction and happiness in the domestic 
circle. 

Soon after the marriage of Mrs. Vernon, her sister 


68 


became the wife of a junior partner in the bank of her 
father, and continued to move in the unfashionable, but 
estimable sphere of her early friends ; while Mr. Ver- 
non, aided by the large fortune his wife had brought him, 
extended his commercial connexions, and Fortune seemed 
delighted to shower on him her choicest favours, by 
realizing even more than his hitherto ambitious dreams 
of wealth. 

'Years had flown, and each succeeding one had added 
thousands to the' wealth of Mr. Vernon ; he became 
noted on Change, quoted in the City, a principal sharer in 
loans, a large landed proprietor, and an influential mem- 
ber of Parliament, who would shortly, report stated, be 
raised to the peerage. He was the father of two sons, 
both in Parliament, and of two daughters, on whom he 
meant to bestow fortunes that must entitle them to marry 
with the highest. His house in London was a palace 
fitted up with all that luxury could invent or wealth com- 
mand : the finest specimens of art in painting and sculp- 
ture were seen at every side ; and not only Danae, but 
Venus herself, and all the beau ideals of mythology, had 
yielded to the golden shower of this modern corrupter, 
and left the land of their birth to decorate the walls or 
niches of the new temple of Plutus. 

The chef -d' oeuvres of Benvenuto Cellini, with all the 
treasures of the cinqua cento, filled his cabinets — trea- 
sures that afforded their owner no enjoyment save that 
of seeing the admiration and envy they excited. Vases 
of crystal-de-roche, set in enamel, and enriched with 
sparkling gems ; cups of onyx, and jars of lapis lazuli 
and malachite, with the rich and laboured bijouterie of 
the time of Louis the Fourteenth, were disposed on 
stands of silver and ebony of curious workmanship : 
while the costly porcelaine de SevreSj of Turquoise 
blue, or the pale rose of Dubary, were scattered through 
the various suites of rooms, all vouchers of the wealth 
that had given to their present owner the spoils of the 
once proud palaces of the Eternal City, of Genoa the 
Superb, of Venice the Gorgeous, and of Florence ; of 
whose merchant princes, the riches, love of display, and 


4 

i 

A 


69 


ambition of the present possessor of their treasures, re- 
minded one, though not of their taste, — for in this Mr. 
Vernon had no rivalry with the Medici, though master 
of some of their finest specimens of art, — of the excel- 
lence that their taste had called forth. 

The Library of Vernon House was the ne plus ultra 
of magnificence. Bookcases of carved rose-w^ood, sup- 
ported by Corinthian columns of the same precious ma- 
terials, the capitals and frieze gilt, and crowned by 
antique busts of or-molu, contained all that ancient or 
modern literature could offer. Large mirrors, descend- 
ing from the architraves to the base, reflected the fine 
proportions of the library, with the gorgeous bindings of 
the books, and the gilded busts^and antique vases filled, 
with the rarest flowers, that were distributed around. 
Behind the mirrors, which turned on a pivot, maps were 
arranged, and in recesses beneath, the celestial and ter- 
restrial globes were divided by a facsimile of the War- 
wick Vase, in pure gold of colossal dimensions, filled 
wiili jwt pourri, breathing of Araby the blest. Tripods 
of or-molu, bearing candelabres, were placed in front of 
the mirrors. The curtains were of crimson satin, 
trimmed with gold bullion fringe, and fell in graceful 
folds to the ground. 

The cornices corresponded with and joined the friezes 
of the bookcases, and, like them, were in alto-relievo, 
representing subjects from the antique, executed in or- 
molu : the carpet was made to match the curtains, and 
its material was so thick that the foot fell unheeded on 
its surface, enhancing the luxury of the springy elasticity 
of its touch by its total absorption of sound. 

One end of the library opened into an orangery, with 
a marble fountain by Bernini in the centre, that sent its 
crystal streams in air ; and this again led into an aviary 
filled with the choicest singing-birds, whose notes min- 
gled with the murmurs of the fountain, and led one to 
believe that one was far away from the murky atmo- 
sphere of London. The windows were of gold-coloured 
glass, reflecting a glowing radiance, and giving a Claude 
Lorraine lint to all around. 


70 

Wherever the eye rested, it was met by forms of 
beauty, and tints various as the rays of a ^Iden sun 
setting into repose, that filled the soul witli -xlelicious 
musings. The easy chair, the lounging sofa,, the Gre- 
cian canopy, each with their table on castorsy’contaming 
all the apparatus of writing, almost tempted«tKe*^ndolent 
by the facility they offered of describing the ideas the 
beauty of the scene, was so calculated to give birth to. 
This was a sort .of royal road to learning, where luxury 
wooed the student, pfesenting all that antiquity can boast 
to refine and elevate the mind, and all that modern civili- 
zation can afford for the luxuriant indulgence of 4i^e 
person. / 

Here, where genius might have essayed his pinions," 
and talent conveyed its impressions to ages yet unborn, 
the man of wealth, the heartless' parvenu, made his notes 
of speculation of thousands to be acquired, influence to ^ 
be gained, and friends to be" left off, the scene possessing 
no more power over his obtuse nerves, than the obscure 
counting-house where his ambitious visions first took 
flight. 

Nothing in art can continue to dazzle but so long as 
we are unaccustomed to the contemplation of it. Let a 
person dwell for some months, nay, a few weeks, in 
one of the mansions that has the most struck his fancy, 
and he will find that by degrees his vision becomes so 
used to the objects which first enchanted him, that he 
soon ceases to be sensible of their presence, or to feel 
aught more than that general complacency excited in the 
mind by being surrounded by agreeable objects. It is 
otherwise with the beauties of nature. The more the 
eye becomes accustomed to behold them, the more plea- 
sure do they convey : each point of view gains a new 
interest by being contrasted with others ; the different 
periods of the day or season change the appearance, and 
throw a fresh light over the scene, that prevents its ever 
becoming monotonous. 


* CHAPTER Xill. 

L’huitre est Tnalheureiise quaridquelqae longue maladle fait 
qu’elle d^^ieint. perle: c'est precisement le bonheur de Pambi- 
tion. ■*’ ' MoJTTE^aUIEU. 

Mr. Vernon had neither .^rown wiser nor happier 
with his accession to riches. They opened new fields 
to his ambition, and as by degrees he realized the dreams 
which that encroaching passion had engendered, he 
fouifd the vista extended to an interminable distance ; 
the most remote point being always the most brilliant 
and seducing, holding forth hopes that there he might 
repose, and enjoy the good he had gained. But 

“Illusive hope still points to distant good.” 

A competency was the first object that lent activity to 
the exertions of Mr. Vernon ; this acquired, the prospect 
of wealth became the next point of attraction. But as 
wealth is comparative, his ideas on this score enlarged 
with his means of acquiring it ; and he who would have 
considered himself at the acme of his ambition as master 
of a plum, had now arrived at thinking himself unlucky 
as a millionaire^ unless a coronet glittered on his brow. 

But while seeking this imaginary good, a sentiment 
of dislike and envy to all who possessed hereditary 
claims to its distinction, was prominent in his breast. 
He looked on their gaiety as insulting, their coldness as 
revolting, and their indifference as something not to be 
borne, at least, until he had gained the first step in the 
ladder that he meant to climb. He affected in conver- 
sation to despise the distinctions of rank, though rank 
was the sole end and aim of his existence : and yet he 
has been known to break forth into disbelief and invec- 
tive, when some person has inadvertently stated the re- 
fusal of some very distinguished commoner, — some 
Burdett of the day, — toT accept the peerage, as if such a 
refusal was impossible. 


72 


Mr. Vernon was so intent in looking forward that he 
had forgotten to look back, else might he have remem- 
bered the former points of his ambition, — points that had 
receded as soon as reached, and were thought of no more. 
Experience might have taught him, that hitherto success 
had but excited him to new exertions. But when did 
man profit by the lessons of experience ? 

** Man never is, but always to be blest;” 

and as long as Hope, Fortune, or Ambition, has a bauble 
to lure men on, they rarely pause until the grave receives 
them, and ends their illusions. 

This has been, and will be the history of man, as long 
as the genus exists, thinking only of that future that will 
end but as the past, in disappointment, or that he shall 
never see. He who calls himself prudent, laughs at the 
extravagance of the thoughtless dissipater of wealth, who, 
determined to enjoy to-day lest to-morrow come not for 
him, spreads around him the enjoyments that gold can 
procure, and lives to want the comforts that he has bar- 
tered for luxuries. This to the prudent man seems mad- 
ness, or folly ; and he says, “ I will keep my stores until 
unbounded riches have given me the means of enjoying 
all, and then I will indulge to satiety.” But he recks 
not that the sense of enjoyment will then have passed 
for ever, and that the cup filled by the syren Pleasure 
can charm no more — Ambition takes the place of Ava- 
rice, as Avarice has usurped that of Pleasure, all doomed 
to the same end — disappointment. 

Mr. Vernon felt not that his days were fast fleeting in 
the pursuit of the imaginary good that had lured him on, 
and that enjoyment had not yet found him ; but he flat- 
tered himself, that once elevated to the rank he had so 
long aspired to, he should enjoy repose when a coronet 
encircled his brow. But until that wished-for event, 
uneasy lay the head which anticipated it, though that 
head was pillowed on down, and had the supposed 
sleep-giving consciousness of being the master of count- 
less thousands. 


73 


Mr. Vernon possessed a vague idea that perfect hap- 
piness was only to be attained by arriving at the fourth 
step in the peerage but he tried to stifle this thought, 
because he felt that his age gaye him little chance of ac- 
complishing it, and consoled himself with the hope that, 
once a Lord, his feelings would change, and that he 
should begin to taste the pleasures he had hitherto put 
away from him, lest they might interfere with the grand 
object of his pursuit. 

The eldest son of Mr. V ernon resembled his father in 
selfishness and in ambition. A noble or generous feeling 
had never had a place in his breast ; for egotism, vanity, 
and conceit had left little room for other passions. With 
the advantages of having passed his boyhood at Eton — 
that Macadamiser of hereditary distinctions — he was 
much less impressed with a respect for rank than was 
his father. He had approached too near nobility to be 
imposed on by the false notions adopted by those who 
see it at a distance ; and he found that the Marquesses, 
Earls, Viscounts, Barons, Lord Johns and Lord Henrys, 
of the first and second forms, had nothing to distinguish 
them from their untitled playmates, except what he could 
little appreciate — an open manliness and good breeding, 
the effects of that freedom from hauteur and aflectation 
that is, in general, a remarkable characteristic in the an- 
cient nobility. 

This close contact with the young scions of aristocracy 
had taken off Francis Vernon’s deference for them, and 
left him free from prejudices for or against them ; but 
Christ Church, with what he called its invidious distinc- 
tions, excited his wrath ; and though he liked to lounge 
on the arm of a tufted collegian, he disliked him for the 
badge that marked the difierence in their birth, and longed 
for the period that would elevate him to rank and station. 
His father’s well calculated liberality had enabled him to 
maintain a prominent position at Christ Church : he had 
the best hunters, the best furnished rooms, gave the most 
recherche dinners the most frequently of any man at Ox- 
ford, and piqued himself on having his rooms constantly 
filled with the elite of his circle, which he attributed to 

VOL. II. 7 


74 


the attraction of his society, until a candid friend avowed, 
in a moment of abandon, that he, too, would adopt Ver- 
non’s mode of filling his rooms, by placing large mirrors 
in them, — the sure plan of collecting visitors, and the 
only reflections a la mode at Christ Church. 

During his visits to the paternal roof in London or in 
Wiltshire, Francis Vernon was sure to engage some of 
his titled companions as guests, proud to display to them 
the unbounded luxury that reigned there, and glad to 
show his parents and sisters the perfect equality with 
which he treated the owners of the high-sounding titles 
that he abridged of their rank in conversation, which 
never failed to be remarked and rewarded by a compla- 
cent smile from his father. 

Henry Vernon, two years junior to his brother, re- 
sembled his mother in gentleness and amiability, to which 
he united firmness and decision, with considerable talent 
and general information. 

The sisters were handsome, showy, and accomplished; 
skilled in all the arts of display, and as ambitious and 
aspiring as even their father could desire. They were 
ready to lend themselves to any scheme to procure their 
elevation into that third heaven of their imagination, — 
some ducal family. 

To accomplish this desirable object, dinners and balls 
in the season, select parties at Vernon Villa at Richmond, 
and shooting-parties in the autumn and winter were ar- 
ranged, to which two latter, none were engaged that 
could mar the projects of the inviter, or distract the 
attention of the invited from the objects of attraction held 
forth to them. Earls had danced and sighed. Viscounts 
bad talked of the happiness of domestic life, and Barons 
had searched for the hidden shawds, or boas, and assisted 
the fair owners in enveloping their persons with them, 
evincing a tender anxiety, indicative of more than com- 
mon interest ; but the Misses Vernons were not to be 
caught by aught less brilliant than the present possessors 
or expectants of a Dukedom, and were voted by the as- 
pirants to their favour as very amiable, but rather re- 
served, which was attributed to the old-fashioned notions 


inculcated by Madame Mere, instead of to the indiffer- 
ence of the young ladies. 

It is thus that vanity accounts for all that might be 
mortifying to self ; and lucky it is that it has such con- 
solation ! 


CHAPTER XIV. 

How many in the married state we find 
Wedded in person, but divorced in mind. 

Mezentius chain’d the living' to the dead, 

Unnatural union! which has horror bred. 

Though but one victim suffer’d from the chain. 

While Wedlock gives to two an equal pain. 

“ Marriagey^ an old Poem. 

Mr. Henry Vernon had acquired riches more slowly 
than his elder brother, and was content to enjoy them 
less ostentatiously. Simple in taste and cultivated in 
mind, he looked on wealth as a means, and not as the 
end of enjoyment, and really found gratification in the 
choice works of art and well-chosen library with which 
he had enriched his spacious and Vichly-furnished house. 

One daughter was the sole offspring of the ill-assorted 
union of Mr. Henry Vernon with the rich and handsome 
— or rather let us pay respects to the gifts of Nature by 
placing them before that of Fortune, and say, the hand- 
some and rich Miss Oswald. When Mr. H. Vernon 
wooed and won this lady, he was more attracted by the 
roses on her cheek, and the lustre in her eye, than by 
the thousands that composed her dower, or the large ex- 
pectancies that futurity promised her. She was so young 
and lovely, that Scepticism itself could hardly have 
doubted that one whose beauty was so calculated to adorn 
the domestic circle, should sigh for a more extended the- 
atre to exhibit her charms. 

Henry Vernon was not the first, and will not be the 
last man, who discovers that a beautiful exterior may 
cover a cold and selfish heart. Such discoveries, like all 


76 


that depend on experience, arrive too late to be of advan- 
tage to him who makes them. All are ready to admit 
this truism ; but who ever was willing to profit by the 
experience of others, though offered ever so much below 
prime cost? Henry Vernon soon found that he could 
neither expect a friend nor companion in his wife ; and 
that he must be content to abandon the hopes he had 
formed of cheerful evenings at home, — his expected con- 
solation for long hours of confinement in his counting- 
house, — and return to his solitary hearth, to seek in the 
perusal of some new work to pass the hours wasted by 
his wife in a round of amusements, which appearing to 
her to be the sole end of existence, any attempt to inter- 
rupt them only produced reproaches, ill-humour, and ob- 
stinacy. 

The birth of a daughter produced no change in Mrs. 
Henry Vernon’s feelings. The same round of heartless, 
joyless amusements continued to fill up her time, inter- 
rupted by petulant complaints of being left out of Mrs, 
Vernon’s select parties, and expressions of anger and 
vexation towards her husband for what he could neither 
avert nor change. Henry Vernon had observed with 
pain his brother’s intentional withdrawal from his so- 
ciety ; habits of youthful intimacy had cemented a 
brotherly affection on his side, which had never been but 
slightly participated by Mr. Vernon, and which pride and 
ambition quickly extinguished. 

Conscious that he was acting unkindly, he soon began 
to dislike the sight of his brother, because, by reminding 
him of his wilful neglect, it became a source of embar- 
rassment and reproach. 

It rarely happens when we behave ill towards any one 
with whom we have lived on terms of affection that dis- 
like towards that person does not ensue ; and the less 
excuse we find in our own hearts for our unkindness, 
the more strongly do we entertain the dislike. We begia 
by being unkind, and we end by being unjust and cruel ; 
and it is well if we confine ourselves to feelings, and do 
not commit actions which wounded conscience will 
surely, though too late, avenge. 


77 


Mrs. Vernon felt a sincere friendship and respect for 
her brother-in-law, whose society was so agreeable to 
her taste as to induce her to submit without a murmur to 
that of his wife, which was far from being congenial to 
her. She saw with regret her husband’s cold and un- 
brotherly wish of withdrawing from anything more than 
an occasional intercourse, and felt pain at each interview, 
on observing the undiminished kindness of Henry Ver- 
non’s manner, which seemed like a tacit avowal that he 
knew there was no want of affection on her part; while 
the offended air and angry insinuations of his wife em- 
barrassed and annoyed her. 

But if Mrs. Vernon felt pained at being compelled to 
withdraw from the intimacy of her brother-in-law’s fa- 
mily, how much more deeply did she feel at being forced 
to confine her intercourse with a loved and only sister to 
occasional visits, formal dinners once or twice in the sea- 
son, and now and then an affectionate tete-a-tete, when 
both felt anxious to conceal from the other the conscious- 
ness that their intercourse was limited, and marked this 
consciousness by a careful avoidance of any reference to 
the innumerable dinners, balls, and routs, the accounts of 
which so constantly filled up the columns of the “ Court 
Journal,” where the “ fashionable”- or “elegant” Mrs;' 
Vernon generally headed some leading-article in the list 
of fashionable intelligence. 

With that fine tact peculiar to women, and which al- 
ways exists in proportionate the warmth of heart and de- 
licacy of the person possessing it, Mrs. Burrell, the 
sister of Mrs. Vernon, had early observed the line of 
conduct Mr. Vernon had forced his wife to adopt, and 
that which she herself must follow, to save her affection- 
ate and sensitive sister from additional pain. Mrs. Bur- 
rell, therefore, avoided all allusion to the infrequency of 
their intercourse, and contented herself with showing an 
increased affection in her manner when they met. 

By this delicacy, Mrs. Vernon was saved the pang of 
thinking, that while obeying the harsh mandates of a 
husband, she had either wounded or lost a sister’s heart ; 
and the soft and continued pressure with which she re- 
7 * 


78 


tained that sister’s hand in her’s marked how gratefully 
she felt this forbearing tenderness to her feelings. 

Less tact on either side must have led to most painful 
scenes. Temper, good-nature, and affection, though pre- 
cious in themselves, must fail to insure the happiness of 
those dear to us unless we also possess tact, tjie invalua- 
ble gift which is the true panacea that sweetens the cup 
of life, founded on forbearance, itself a virtue. Tact ena- 
bles us to avoid wounding, and to repel wounds ; it is 
the sura indicator of goodness as well as refinement ; for 
though 4he latter lends additional charms to its practice, 
it is the former that gives birth to it. Tact, like Genius, 
must be inherent ; and cultivation only does for one what 
it does for the other, polishes and refines both, but can- 
not create either. 

I refer not to that spurious Tact, the offspring of so- 
ciety, nursed by policy and educated by deception, 
which enables people who dislike, or are indifferent to 
each other, to meet without any excitement or betrayal 
of angry feelings ; to show interest where none is expe- 
rienced, and to avoid all occasions of touching on dis- 
agreeable subjects. This, I admit, is best acquired in 
an intercourse with polished society ; but the Tact I 
worship is that which springs from the sensitive mind, 
with Ml the bland influences of kindness, blessed and 
blessing, the full-grown offspring of goodness. This 
Tact precludes the necessity of speech : a look suffices : 
a pressure of the hand, or total silence, is often more 
eloquent than all that language could express — 

“ El silentio ancor suolo 
Haver prieghi e parole.” 

Mr. Burrell, with all his wife’s affectionate nature, 
wanted her philosophy ; he felt mortified, not for himself 
but her, at seeing her left out at all the brilliant fetes 
given by the Vernons; and when their acquaintance, 
with that want of perception so remarkable in a certain 
class, dwelt on the newspaper descriptions of such fetes, 
and appealed to Mrs. Burrell for the particulars, the em- 


79 


barrassed looks and heightened colour of his wife, who 
was only embarrassed because she felt what was passing 
in his mind, increased his displeasure. 

Mr. Burrell was justly proud of his wife; he was 
aware of her merits ; he had been accustomed to see her 
looked up to and respected by all his friends ; and as his 
fortune and position were highly respectable, he was 
shocked and humiliated at finding her unappreciated by 
her brother-in-law : and secretly accused her sister of a 
want of respect for her, or a want of spirit in vindicating 
what was due to herself, in thus tamely submitting to 
the imperious and unnatural dictation of her selfish and 
worldly-minded husband. 


CHAPTER XV. 

“ Oh ! we do all offend — 

There’s not a day of wedded life, if we 

Count at its close the little, bitter sum 

Of thoughts, and words, and looks unkind and froward, 

Silence that chides, and woundings of the eye — 

But, prostrate at each other’s feet, we should 
Each night forgiveness ask.” < 

t. 

Conjugal life, as all who’ve tried can tell, ^ 

Must bear affinity to heaven or hell. 

Modem Hudibras. ■ 

Mr. Burrell was the father of two sons and a daugh- 
ter; his elder son was pursuing his travels previously to 
his entrance into Parliament, and his second was lately 
gazetted in the Guards. Both were promising young 
men, natural and unaffected, fondly attached to their 
parents and to each other, and loving their sister with all 
that affection which a handsome and most amiable young 
woman is so calculated to excite in the breasts of brothers 
only two years her senior. She had been their play- 
fellow in infancy, and was now the object of their fond 
interest and protection. Charles Burrell wrote to her 


80 


detailed accounts of all he saw in his travels; purchased 
for her all that he thought she would like; and William 
made her the confidant of all his pleasures and troubles, 
the latter of light import and brief duration — while her 
father and mother looked on her as the sweetener of their 
existence, whose gaiety and unclouded gentleness shed 
all the blessings of a perpetual spring and sunshine over 
their lives. 

Mr. and Mrs. H. Vernon and their daughter were in 
the library, waiting the announcement of dinner, the 
mistress of the mansion looking over the columns of 
“ The Morning Post,” where she saw the notice of the 
coming fete of Mrs. Vernon, with the programme of the 
intended amusements. Her brow curved, her eyes 
flashed, and her cheek assumed a deeper red as she pe- 
rused the paper and recollected that she was not bidden 
to the pageant. She was about to express the angry 
feelings big within her breast, when the maitre d'hotel 
announcing that dinner was served, compelled her to 
restrain the expression, though she did not conquer the 
anger. 

Mr. H. Vernon was too well versed in the temper of 
his wife not to observe the indications of a coming storm ; 
and his daughter had witnessed too many, not to have a 
foreboding of an approaching one. The presence of the 
servants imposed a restraint that was evidently borne 
with impatience by the mistress of the house, who cast 
from time to time angry glances at her husband, as she 
saw him help himself to some fresh plat^ which, she had 
sagacity enough to discover, was done to prolong the 
dinner, and retard the disagreeable scene which he anti- 
cipated. 

Her patience became exhausted, when, at the second 
course, after scarcely more than tasting two or three of 
the entremets, he commenced mixing sugar, oil, and 
vinegar, for some brawn, and. she angrily observed, that 
he seemed unusually disposed to eat. Mr. H. Vernon 
answered, that he was rather hungry, — and felt his colour 
heightened at the consciousness of the want of truth of 


81 


his reply, no less than at the tone of the remark that 
produced it. 

“ You bid fair, to-day,” said his wife, with one of her 
most spiteful looks, “ to rival a certain friend of ours, 
who certainly resembles a zoophyte, in having a stomach 
but no brains.” 

This observation Mr. H. Vernon had more than once 
heard his wife apply to his brother, and he was thankful 
she had not, on the present occasion, named him before 
the servants ; but, fearing some more open explosion of 
her anger, he sent away his untasted brawn, and became 
almost as anxious as herself for the disappearance of the 
domestics, — such was his dread of any exhibition before 
them! 

They had no sooner left the room than Mrs. Vernon 
asked her husband, whether he had seen the notice of 
the fete to be given by his sister-in-law ; and, ere he 
could reply, she demanded how long he intended to sup- 
port the cool impertinence of his relations, in thus pass- 
ing them over : for her part, she would no longer submit 
to it ; adding, that it was all his fault for not asserting 
what was due to her, if not to himself, and for not making 
some exertion to extend the circle of their acquaintance 
into the fashionable coteries, to which Mrs. Vernon had 
gained access, and for which she (Mrs. H. Vernon) was 
a much more eligible candidate, than her silent, fright- 
ened-looking sister-in-law. 

- She then commented on the hrusquerie of Mr. Vernon, 
the insipidity of his wife, the flippancy and airs of his 
daughters, and the insolent nonchalance of the eldest son 
— “All of which,” calmly observed her husband, “proves 
that we are happy in not living mpre frequently in their 
society.” 

The anger of the lady blazed afresh at this reasonable 
remark. She said she wanted not their society — ^nay, 
she hated it, but she wanted to take her proper place at 
their fashionable parties, among the people of high rank 
who frequented them. 

Long experience had taught Henry Vernon the utter 
uselessness of reasoning with his wilful wife, and he 


82 


rarely attempted a reply, except to avoid incurring her 
increased anger by the charge, often repeated, that his 
silence was an impertinent display of contempt towards 
her. He had tried to make her sensible how undigni- 
fied it would be for them to show that they were morti- 
fied by the neglect of his brother ; and always recom- 
mended the maintenance of a distant but civil intercourse 
between the families. Such representations and recom- 
mendations had little effect ; he was accused of want of 
proper spirit — a favourite phrase with angry ladies — and 
was constantly forced to bear, or forbear, in the angry 
discussions, replete with bitter sarcasms, to which each 
new grand fete of his brother’s gave rise. 

Henry Vernon passed in the circle of his acquaintance 
as one who was governed by his wife : the men called 
him hen-pecked, and the women quoted Mrs. H. Vernon 
as an example of a clever person, who knew how to ma- 
nage her husband. 

It is thus that people often judge : the married indivi- 
dual who has the misfortune to have an incorrigible 
partner, is called weak because he submits to what can- 
not be remedied, though his submission evinces his 
superior strength of mind ; while the incorrigible person, 
who is endured as an incurable evil, is called clever, be- 
cause she destroys her own happiness, and interrupts 
that of all around her, by the indulgence of a bad temper 
and false view of subjects, incompatible with cleverness, 
in the proper acceptation of the word. 

If we reflect on all the examples of husbands or wives 
that have been most governed, we shall find that the 
submitting party was the most clever, and the govern- 
ing one the most weak ; unless, where the latter was so 
gentle that the sway was not apparent, the person follow- 
ing the poet’s beau ideal of the wife 

“ Who never answers till her husband cools, 

And though she rules him, never shows she rules.” 

A jealousy of being governed, and a desire of govern- 
ing, are in general most frequently to be found in weak 


83 


minds of both sexes ; and this love of rule joined to ob- 
stinacy, another characteristic of feeble intellect, renders 
f5uch persons so incorrigible, that passive forbearance is 
all that remains to a husband or wife, so unhappily 
“ paired, but not matched.” Let not, however, persons 
so borne with rejoice in the belief that they, are clever, 
but be thankful to the strength that yields to their weak- 
ness. 

Mary Vernon had naturally a quick temper, but the 
painful experience of the evils which her mother’s 
violence produced, had taught her to correct it, without 
impairing that sensitiveness and vivacity which generally 
accompany quickness of temper. We have described 
the minds, but not the persons, of some of our characters : 
this latter we must now attempt — and as Mary Vernon 
is before us, we will begin with her. 

She was in her eighteenth year, rather above than be- 
low the middle size, slight and elegantly formed, and 
possessing that roundness without which female symme- 
try cannot exist. Her complexion was exquisitely fair — 
that fairness which peculiarly belongs to very dark-haired 
women; her cheeks slightly tinged with the rose of 
health, and her lips of the rich crimson that made her 
white and regular teeth look still more brilliant. Her face 
was perfectly oval ; her eyes a deep blue, shaded by 
silken eyelashes of raven hue, and surmounted by brows 
whose long and jetty arches added beauty to her fair and 
open forehead. Her hair, at a little distance, appeared 
to be black, but was of a rich brown, possessed of that 
golden reflection which is as rare as it is beautiful ; her 
arms, hands, and feet might have served as models to the 
sculptor, and finished a form as graceful as symmetry, 
youth, and health could make it. Add to all this, a 
countenance varying and full of expression, and Mary 
Vernon is before you, gentle or ungentle reader. 

Yet methinks I hear you say, “ Why she is, then, 
that faultless monster (of beauty) that the world ne’er 
saw ; for, as yet, all that has been described is perfect.” 
But, alas ! the beauty of Mary Vernon, like all earthly 
beauty, was imperfect ; as all her female friends declared 


84 


her nose to be unpeu retrousse^ and her lips a little too 
full — two faults that none of her male friends could ever 
be brought to admit, though often assailed on the sub- 
ject, with that pertinacity displayed by ladies in their 
love of truth, and their wish of making male converts to 
the justice of their opinions. 

On no subject is the discrimination of women more 
visible than on that of female beauty. A blemish that 
might have for ever escaped the eye of man, (nay, such 
is the blindness of mankind on such points, might have 
appeared to him as something attractive) is at one glance 
detected by the quick perception of a woman ; and with 
the kind wish of extending her discoveries, is made 
known to most of her male friends. This, which we call 
her love of truth and candour, is, by the ill-natured 
world, stigmatized as jealousy or envy, two feelings 
which we, who know the gentle sex, maintain to be fo- 
reign to their natures. 

Mary Vernon was a good musician, had a clear and 
sweet, though not a powerful voice ; excelled in paint- 
ing, and possessed a knowledge of the elements of all the 
sciences necessary to form a rational and accomplished 
companion. 

No wonder, then, that with so many personal and 
mental attractions, she was generally admired, and al- 
ready refused more than one eligible offer for her hand. 
It was some lurking fear of the superiority of her charms 
drawing attention from, or provoking comparisons with, 
those of his daughters, that influenced her selfish uncle, 
almost as much as his false pride, in excluding her from 
his fashionable reunions, — an exclusion that was by no 
means disagreeable to the two young ladies, who felt no 
strong predilection for their beautiful cousin. 

There were two people in Carlton Gardens, where the 
town mansion of Mr. Vernon was situated, who partook 
not of his or his daughter’s feelings of indifference to 
Mary Vernon ; nay, who felt for her a more than com- 
mon interest and auction : these were Mrs. Vernon and 
her second son, who had long learned to estimate their 
charming relation. The son scarcely viewed her in the 


85 


light of a cousin, owing to the restricted intercourse o 
the families, which had produced a more tender, though 
less familiar acquaintance between them. 

There is nothing so destructive to love as the familia- 
rity that is engendered by constant intercourse in youth: 
this destroys illusions, and establishes a sort of sisterly 
or brotherly relation, that precludes other sentiments be- 
tween the parties. It is the reverse in more matured 
age : persons so thrown together, form attachments that 
become strengthened by habits of intimacy, that render 
them indispensable to each other, even after passion has 
removed the veil which had at first blinded them. Pro- 
vidence has wisely ordained, that habit should replace 
other and dearer ties, as a compensation for the decrease 
of passion — that fever of the heart and mind, which, fol- 
lowed by re-action, produces indifference, and all the 
somniferous train of feelings, or want of feelings, that 
form such a dreary contrast to the brilliant dreams from 
which the heart has awakened. Providence, that all-wise 
director of all, has decreed, that each season of life 
should have its own peculiar charm, and has given us 
habit, in our more mature age, to atone for the loss of the 
more passionate enjoyments of our youth. Habit it is 
which inures us to what was at first disagreeable, 
softens down what was harsh, and makes us feel our own 
insufficiency, by teaching us to depend for happiness on 
others. 

Ask those who have spent years together, perhaps 
often breaking forth into murmurs at their mutual defects, 
if they would change their partners for all he perfection 
that imagination creates to mock reality, and they will 
say, or they will feel, that such a separation would be 
insupportable, as habit, that forger of strongest chains, 
has riveted theirs too indissolubly to be divided, except 
by death. 


VOL. II. 


8 


86 


CHAPTER XVI. 

What is the aim and end of spinsters’ lives, 

But to be made rich, great, and titled wives ? 

Modern Hudihras. 

“ It is too ridiculous,” said Miss Vernon to her sister, 
“ that mamma should make no exertion to get us asked 
to the Duchess of Deloraine’s ball. It might be easily- 
managed, knowing, as we do, half the people with whom 
the Duchess is most intimate : but mamma will do no- 
thing, and papa seems for once paralysed, as he is deaf 
to all the hints I have given him. The Marquis of Tad- 
caster has asked me ten times if we go there, and, not 
liking to own that we were not invited, I gave no posi- 
tive answer. He has lately become more marked in his 
attentions ; and this ball might have decided something. 
He is going immediately after to Scotland; and, once 
there, who can say when we shall see him again ?” 

“ I assure you,” answered Louisa, “ that I am quite 
as vexed as you are ; for I see the horrid perspective be- 
fore us of a winter in the country, without the chance of 
forming anything like a desirable alliance; and, as we 
have now been out four seasons, — that is to say, you 
have been four and I three — it is quite time that we were 
settled. However, I am sure I have no chance until you 
are married; and I must say, that I think you have 
waited long enough for a dukedom, and that it would be 
wise to catch at the first coronet that is supported by 
plenty of green acres, instead of doing penance at home.” 

There was something unpalatable in the observations 
of Louisa Vernon to the vain and irritable feelings of her 
sister, and their conversations on marriage, the subject 
that most interested them, seldom concluded without the 
excitement of angry feelings. The vanity of both pre- 
vented their acknowledging the wounds inflicted ; but 
these rankled not the less, and the young ladies were 
most anxious to succeed in their matrimonial specula- 
tions, no less for the sake of the splendid establishments - 


87 


they contemplated, than for the wish of triumphing over 
each other. 

Mrs. Vernon saw with sorrow, that worldly feelings 
had blighted all the sentiments of natural affection in the 
breasts of her daughters. In vain she tried to lead them 
back ; for the path of nature, like that of virtue, once 
lost, is difficult to be regained, and like it, is only dis- 
covered with repentance for a guide. The generous and 
affectionate heart of the mother was chilled by the cold 
and calculating selfishness of her daughters ; and they 
looked on her as unt bonne hourgeoise, who had little 
knowledge of the world that they worshipped, and who 
could in no way assist their projects. 

As the fete drew near, they felt the necessity of bring- 
ing their admirers to a decided declaration, and deter- 
mined to spare no pains to effect so desirable an end. 
Louisa’s experience of three unsuccessful seasons had 
discouraged her ambitious hopes, and she had reasoned 
herself into the conviction, that, after all, a person might 
be very happy as a Countess ; a conviction that the at- 
tentions of Lord Durnford had considerably helped to 
bring about. 

In the appearance of the Misses Vernon there was 
nothing to distinguish them from any other of the good- 
looking young ladies of fashion of the day. They were 
what might be called handsome ; but their countenances 
were so little expressive of any of the qualities that fix 
sympathy or affection, that after one had allowed that 
they were good-looking, and had a certain air of fashion, 
— an air as distinct from that which distinguishes high 
birth and high breeding, as is the false diamond from the 
brilliant gem it is made to copy,. — there was little else to 
be said. Beauty depends much more on expression than 
on feature, as all must have remarked, who have seen 
plain features redeemed by that soul-beaming expression, 
which leaves the impression of beauty, or “ something 
than beauty dearer,” behind, bringing back faces to 
memory, the details of which might not support a strict 
scrutiny, but the tout ensemble of which captivated. 


88 


CHAPTER XVII. |i 

“ A file is one of the many palliatives for that common ma- 
lady ennui, and, like most palliatives, gives but a temporary' 
relief, generally followed by a return of the disease.” : 

The long looked-for /e^e to be given by Mr. Vernon 
at length arrived, and was ushered in by torrents of rain, ' ^ 
which poured from an early hour in the day, and con- < 
tinned without intermission, as if to prove to him, a truth - 
he had lately seemed to doubt, namely, that gold cannot ^ 
command all things. The temporary rooms, not formed ' 
to “ bide the pelting of the pitiless storm,” became in- J 
undated ; and temples draped with pale rose and celestial 
blue, ere half the day was over, were only fit to receive i 

Naiades, and were totally inapplicable to the terrestrial | 

nymphs and swains for whom they were arranged. Gal- . 

leries and kiosks crumbled “like the baseless fabric of a , 

vision,” leaving many a wreck behind ; and had Mr. ; 

Vernon contemplated the novel exhibition of a Naumachia 
for the amusement of his guests, he might have easily 
contrived to acomplish it, so plentiful was the supply of 
water on the leads, and in the garden, where the fete 
was to have displayed its greatest attractions. Triumphal 
arches lay prostrate on the earth, burying in their fall 
the rich and rare plants and flowers imported from all 
the nurseries round London ; and fragments of silk dra- 
peries, mingled with garlands of artificial roses, were 
seen borne along the yellow streams that urged their 
turbid course through all the walks in this lately beautiful 
garden. Variegated lamps were tossing in the breeze on 
the dripping branches that supported them ; and the 
drenched flowers, half covered with mould and gravel, 
gave an air of desolation and ruin, that seemed to warn 
millionaires how soon the elements may dissipate the 
fruits of their riches. 

Mr. Vernon viewed the scene of destruction from his 
dressing-room window, and as he saw the snowy and 


89 


rose-coloured petals of the camelia japonicas and the 
blossoms of the other rare plants of his conservatory, 
hurried along by the hurricane, he bethought him of the 
truth of the proverb, that “ riches can make unto them- 
selves wings to fly away.” He moralized, not on the 
powers of Nature, but on the probable cost which this 
ill-timed freak of her’s would entail upon him ; and the 
dire necessity of receiving the guests of the evening in 
the splendid salons of his mansion instead of, al fresco, 
in the temples and gardens on which he had expended 
such vast sums, to astonish, if not to delight the be- 
holder. 

The young ladies were still more annoyed by the un- 
propitious storm. They, unlike their papa, calculated 
not the expense, but the results of the destruction of the 
garden. They had contemplated all the possibilities of 
well managed tete-a4etes with their respective admirers ; 
the most judicious modes of eliciting declarations : and 
a fine night, and the silver moon shedding her radiance 
over all that luxury and wealth could combine, were 
considered as essential requisites in the stage decora- 
tions of the act of the comedy they intended to repre- 
sent. An unusual softness of manner might be assumed, 
in a scene where Nature is exhibited as Nature is seen 
in a ballet ; forced flowers and rare exotics might serve 
as symbols of tenderness to lovers themselves, the pro- 
ductions of the hot-beds of London fashionable forcing- 
frames ; and a thousand half sentences, “ looks, and 
becks, and wreathed smiles,” might be given to encou- 
rage languid admirers, beneath the glow of variegated 
lamps, and on the velvet of a green lawn, that would 
lose all charm in the blaze of the ball-room, with the feet 
gliding over the chalked floor, and the eyes dazzldd all 
around by splendour and the heart gladdened by gaiety. 
No ! in a ball-room, no role but that of the brilliant dan- 
sense could with propriety be played ; and the only 
chance left was a stroll through the suite of apartments, 
when the languor of fatigue and heat might furnish a 
pretext for sighing for the country, regretting being pent 
up in London, and envying the supposed admirer, who 


90 


would be so happy in Scotland, or wherever else his 
ennui might tempt him to go. 

Now that they could not sport it on the light fantastic 
toe in the garden, it would be necessary to change the 
costumes prepared, en peu en Bergere a V Opera, for 
something more analagous to the gilded salons in which 
the fete would be held. Aigrettes of diamonds must be 
substituted for wreaths of flowers, and robes embroi- 
dered in pearls, must take the place of Diaphane gauze, 
with bouquets of lilies of the valley and roses. 

Mr. Vernon, while his young ladies were attending to 
the momentous change of their decorations, was ordering 
a double supply of wax-candles to be scattered through 
the suite of salons, that a blaze of light, emulating the 
sun itself, should illuminate the chef-d’ oeuvres of art that 
enriched their walls. 

The company assembled at the usual hour — the usual 
faces, dresses, and smiles, were exhibited ; the usual 
afiectation of not being pleased shown off, as if each had 
agreed that it was indecorous, or at least vulgar to ap- 
pear gratified at what was meant to give gratification, 
(the nil admirari being one of the adopted secrets of 
fashionable non-entity most generally followed,) and the 
usual nothings were repeated. 

Lord Albany joined Lady Oriel and Mrs. Forrester, 
and amused them with his piquant remarks on the scene 
and on the principal actors on it. 

“ Do you see Lady Danvers ?” said he ; “ she is get- 
ting herself up in her role of a woman of fashion, but she 
is not calculated to fill the part well.” 

“ Is it then so difficult a part ?” interrogated Mrs. 
Forrester. 

“ Cela depend , replied Lord Albany ; “ to you ladies 
nothing appears so easy, and nothing is so easy ; mais. 
Lady Danvers finds it terrible up-hill work ; she wants 
to be an influential leader, the female Grey, Wellington, 
or Canning, of fashionable, instead of political life ; and, 
helas ! she is only formed to be the Billy Holmes, which 
means the whipper-in ; and between a leader and a whip- 
per-in in fashionable life there is as great a difference as 


91 


in political. I could give a receipt to make a woman of 
fashion, if I saw a meritorious debutante for the part ; 
but I should as soon think of giving Ude’s instructions 
how to dress a salmi de becassine to an under-house- 
maidi as my receipt to Lady Danvers ; neither would do 
justice to them.” 

“ Pray let us be favoured with your rules,” said Lady 
Oriel ; and as we are going to rusticate in Ireland, there 
is no chance of our abusing the favour, by any clumsy 
attempts at the part.” 

“ I must again remind you, Mesdames,” said Lord 
Albany, “that to give you a receipt to make a woman 
of fashion, would be ‘ gild refined gold, or paint the lily 
but if you command me to state what I should recom- 
mend to others, you shall be obeyed, the more readily 
that my woman of fashion must not be less than fifteen 
years your senior. Suppose a lady highly born, and 
highly bred, (mind, I don’t say well-bred,) of at least 
thirty-five years old, married to a man of rank and large 
fortune. Beauty is of no importance ; but strong nerves 
are indispensable, as without these sinews of war, a 
leader of fashion cannot succeed. A good tournure is 
highly necessary, and a practical knowledge of French 
and Italian cannot be dispensed with. The lady must 
have natural vivacity, and acquired self-command to con- 
trol any unseemly ebullition of it ; she must have tact 
without talent, that is to say, she must not excel in con- 
versation, writing, music, or any of the accomplishments 
that require talent, as excellence in any of them would 
occupy too much of that precious time, which her du- 
ties as a woman of fashion require. Society is to be con- 
sidered the end and aim of her life. Dinners, balls, and 
routs, the only things that come home to our business 
and bosoms; and all else, as insignificant and unworthy 
of attention. Politics, by which I mean a superficial 
view of the feuds of faction, must be familiar to her ; 
and she must make up in warmth of zeal, for all she 
wants in real comprehension of the questions agitated by 
the Guelphs and Ghibelines of our day. A strict atten- 
tion to la mode is necessary ; a lavish expenditure on 
her person, and a prudent regard to economy in all other 


92 


disbursements are recommended. A consciousness of 
superiority and power, with a philosophical indifference 
to the means employed to obtain it, and a stoical disre- 
gard to the feelings of others, is to be cultivated, and the 
exclusive system, that sainte alliance of the haul ton, is 
never to be abandoned. Beauty, wit, and talent, are to 
be voted unnecessary, or de trop ; and power is to be 
retained coute qui coute. All without the pale of her 
own circle are to be considered mauvais ton, and those 
unknown to her as being unknowable. She is to culti- 
vate an intimacy with the leading ambassadresses, render 
useful the received Corypheus’s of fashion, and employ 
as her creatures the tolerated. One or two political lead- 
ers must be fixed at her receptions, as habitues, and 
their satellites are to be encouraged. Fashion is to be 
considered as the true object of a laudable ambition, and 
all else as accessories of little importance. Place this 
lady in a large and elegantly-furnished mansion in St, 
James’s, Grosvenor, or Berkeley Square, give her a 
villa near town to which she may retire with a chosen 
few of her clique during the summer, and a fine family 
seat in the country, where she may hold her state in the 
winter, surrounded by the magnates of the land, with a 
sprinkling of foreigners of distinction; dress her head 
a la Herbault, her bust a la Victorine, her feet a la Mel- 
notte, and serve her up, with plenty of diamonds and 
pearls, and you will have a woman of fashion.” 

The ladies laughed at the gravity with which Lord 
Albany repeated the receipt, and agreed that it would be 
thrown away on Lady Danvers. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

“ Concealment is too frequently the consequence of guilt, not 
to be often mistaken for it.’* 

Lady Oriel had been talking to a group who were 
looking at a picture by Titian, in the gallery at Vernon 


93 


House, when the sound of a voice familiar to her struck 
on her ear ; she turne-d to look, and found the eyes of 
Lord Delmore fixed on her with a steadfast gaze. The 
impressions which the sight of him conveyed, were so 
mingled with all of pain and humiliation she had ever 
known, that she Telt a sudden faintness come over 
her ; but, though ready to sink to the earth, she sub- 
dued every external symptom of emotion ; and, affect- 
ing not to have seen him, walked to another room. 

This was the first time they had met since her return 
to town. She had seen in the papers that he had gone 
to Italy, and hoped he would remain there, until time 
had enabled her to lose the poignant sense of her own 
imprudence which every recollection of him called up. 
She had learned to judge his artful conduct with the 
same sincerity and severity with which she analyzed her 
own, and the arts by which he had so successfully com- 
promised her in the eyes of her mutual acquaintances, 
being now unveiled, excited her indignation and contempt. 

How did she rejoice that Lord Oriel was not with her 
at this rencontre, as his presence, and the consciousness 
of the scrutiny with which he would examine her coun- 
tenance, would have increased her agitation. She pro- 
posed to Mrs. Forrester to retire ; and, seeing Colonel 
Forrester at that moment enter from the House of Lords, 
where he had been to hear a debate, they both requested 
him to call their carriage, and left Mr. Vernon’s house. 

Lady Oriel reflected with pleasure that in a very few 
days she should leave London, and trusted that she 
should not again meet Lord Delmore. She hesitated 
whether she ought to tell Lord Oriel of the meeting or 
not ; and, with the candour and delicacy natural to her, 
determined on doing so ; but, after a little reflection, she 
thought that the mention of Lord Delmore’s name from 
her lips would conjure up such a host of painful remi- 
niscences in the sensitive mind of her husband, that she 
had not courage to introduce the subject. 

Here again the too susceptible nature of Lord Oriel 
led to mischief, because it was the cause of his wife’s 
concealing from him her rencontre with Lord Delmore ; 
a circumstance which, though trivia in itself, and which 


94 


might naturally be expected to take place, he had not con- 
templated, from his believing that individual to be abroad; 
and though he would certainly have been pained at her 
telling him the fact, his was a temper to be deeply of- 
fended by her concealment of it. - 

The first circumstance that leads to the necessity of a 
concealment between man and wife, gives the colour to 
their future happiness. How often do concealments 
proceed from the fear of wounding a susceptible mind, 
or exciting an irritable temper ! and when once a habit 
of dissimulation is established, the purity of conjugal 
affection is destroyed, though the affection itself may 
continue in all its pristine force. A delicate-minded 
woman, or a sensitive man, discovering that even a tri- 
vial concealment has been practised, feels confidence 
impaired, and suspicion awakened ; the real motives are 
seldom examined, for people are not willing to believe 
themselves too susceptible, or irritable, and would be 
offended at the supposition were it made to them. But 
as it is easier to act with candour than to conquer either 
disposition or temper, we have no hesitation in advising 
all husbands and wives to avoid concealment if they wish 
to preserve happiness, and not be deterred from a state- 
ment of facts by the fear of present annoyance, which 
leaves a much lighter impression than is made by a 
future discovery of them. 

There is something repugnant to the delicacy of affec- 
tion in the consciousness that heads which repose- on 
the same pillow should be occupied by thoughts which 
they dare not utter. Lady Oriel felt this the night of the 
fete, and affected to be asleep when Lord Oriel entered 
her room, to avoid a conversation in which she could not 
name the disagreeable meeting that even then agitated 
her nerves and wounded her feelings. 

“ When,” thought she, with bitterness, “ will the 
effects of my folly cease to rise up in judgment against 
me ? It is to it I owe the susceptibility on my husband’s 
part that renders concealment necessary.” 

The Abbe de Chaulieu observed of Fontenelle, that 
he had the most kindness and the least feeling of any 
man he had ever known. This observation showed a 


95 


profound knowledge of human nature ; for though it may 
appear a paradox, it is nevertheless true, that persons the 
most remarkable for general kindness are those who have 
the least feeling ; deep feeling being always accompanied 
by an inequality of humour, that often precludes habitual 
kindness ; while the absence of feeling leaves us masters 
of ourselves, and ready to show those acts of civility 
that are gratifying to the receiver, and cost little to the 
giver. 

Lord Oriel was an exemplification of the incompati- 
bility of the two ; for no man possessed more feeling, 
and its excess produced the effect of want of kindness, 
by rendering him irritable when he most wished to be 
kind. A woman of less delicacy of mind than his wife, 
might have corrected this exuberant and unhealthy action 
of feeling, by an exposure to him of the pain it occa- 
sioned her ; but Lady Oriel attributed his morbid sensi- 
bility entirely to her own errors, and supported the suf- 
ferings it inflicted with the patience of a martyr. 

Lord Oriel had intended going from the House of Lords 
to the fete at Mr. Vernon’s, but, having been detained 
later than he expected, he concluded, from seeing many 
carriages leaving Carlton Gardens, that Lady Oriel had 
left it. He stopped at White’s to look at the evening 
papers, and was reading one, his face shaded partly by 
the paper, when Lord Tadcastle and some other young 
men walked in, and gave a description of the fete. 

“ Lady Oriel and Mrs. Forrester were the prettiest 
women there,” observed Lord Tadcaster ; “ and so Del- 
more seemed to think, for he never took his eyes off the 
first, who blushed very becomingly when she caught his 
eyes fixed on her face.” 

The observations ended here, and it seemed to Lord 
Oriel as if some one had pointed him out to Lord Tad- 
caster, and so stopped any farther remark. He felt his 
cheeks glow with rage and shame : at one moment he 
felt disposed to call Lord Tadcaster to account for having 
named Lady Oriel, and the next he thought, that as no- 
thing positively offensive had been said, such a step 
would only excite fresh scandal, and revive the former. 

He was one of the last to leave White’s, as he felt too 


96 


much agitated to confront the persons he must pass to 
leave the room ; and in driving home, his mind was in a 
chaos, that made him dread an interview with his wife. 
Would she tell him of the meeting? To name it, would 
be opening afresh old wounds, that both were anxious 
not to touch; hui not to tell him would be still worse, as 
denoting a want of confidence in Herself and him too. 

Anxious as he was to ascertain how Lady Oriel would 
act on this occasion, he was relieved by finding her, as 
he imagined, asleep ; and as he looked on her beautiful 
face, with the silken fringe of her raven eyelashes rest- 
ing on the delicate rose-coloured cheeks, he breathed a 
prayer that no tear might leave its trace on those fair 
cheeks, and laid his head on his pillow, to seek in sleep 
an oblivion of the painful feelings that, during the last 
two hours, had been passing through his mind. 

But sleep pressed not his weary eyelids ; for thought 
after thought, and all connected with Lord Delmore, pre- 
sented themselves. Did Lady Oriel know of his arrival 
in London when she proposed the visit to Ireland ? Why 
was she so afraid of meeting him ? Alas ! he was grow- 
ing unjust and suspicious to his own Frances. He felt 
his injustice, but he had no longer the power of checking 
it. If, however, she told him, as she would be sure to 
do on the morrow, that she had met Lord Delmore, all 
would be well ; but if not, he dared not think of the 
consequences. 

Little did he imagine that she who occupied all his 
thoughts was as wakeful, and nearly as agitated as him- 
self, and from nearly the same cause. All her self* 
reproach had again been excited by the train of thought 
her interview with Lord Delmore had called up. His 
presence would revive the former scandal ; her husband 
would again become susceptible and unhappy ; restraint 
would take place of the confidence beginning to be re- 
established between them ; and all this was the conse- 
quence of her past levity and imprudence. She sup- 
pressed the sighs that laboured in her breast, lest her 
husband should suspect she was not asleep ; but he, who 
believed her in slumber, gave a free vent to his, every 


97 





one of which struck on her ear as a knell of departing 
happiness, and reproached her for being the cause. 

To a refined and sensitive mind, there is no suffering 
that falls so heavily on the heart as the consciousness of 
having inflicted unhappiness on those dear to us. Our 
own tears or sighs relieve the grief they spring from ; 
but those we cause, fall back with bitterness on our 
breasts, and fill us with remorse and anguish. To have 
trifled with our own peace of mind, appears light in 
comparison with the complicated guilt of having de- 
stroyed that of one who loved and trusted us ; and Lady 
Oriel felt, that a woman who has been careless of her 
reputation, thereby wounding her husband’s honour in 
its most tender point, can never more hope for that un- 
interrupted confidence which forms the only solid basis 
on which the happiness of married life can be built. Her 
heart melted within her, as she thought over the pangs 
she had inflicted on the noble and generous breast beside 
her ; and she could have wept over him, if she dared, as 
all the past came in review before her. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

“ Suspicion is a heavy armour, and 
With its own weight impedes more than it protects.’* 

Lady Oriel left her chamber ere her husband awoke, 
and when they met at the breakfast-table, both laboured 
under a constraint that each endeavoured, but in vain, to 
hide. A consciousness of something to be concealed 
pressed on the spirits of the wife, and a knowledge that 
something was concealed, wounded the feelings of the 
husband. 

Those whose susceptibility or irritability force their 
connexions to the painful necessity of concealment, are 
precisely those who are the most offended by it. With 
all Lord Oriel’s natural goodness of heart and delicacy 
of mind, it never occurred to him, that his wife’s silence 
on the subject of her interview with Lord Delmore pro- 

VOL. II. 9 


98 


ceeded wholly from the excess of her affection for him- 
self, making her dread the idea of giving him pain. A 
less refined mind than hers would neither have antici- 
pated the chagrin which the mention of Delmore’s name 
would occasion him, nor have committed the error of 
having any concealment on the subject. But here were 
two people, fondly, warmly attached to each other, frit- 
tering away their happiness, from a too great similarity 
of dispositions and a too great refinement of ideas. A 
little less on either side might have saved them both from 
much misery; but circumstances had, unfortunately, 
tended to increase their morbid sensibility, and they were 
now paying the penalty. 

“How passed off the fete?” asked Lord Oriel. “I 
was on the point of searching you there, when I saw so 
many carriages coming away that I concluded you had 
left. The ball was very brilliant and agreeable ?” 

“Nothing remarkable,” replied Lady Oriel. “On 
the whole, I thought it went off heavily, as the fetes at 
Mr. Vernon’s generally do. He walks about with such 
an air of demanding admiration for his house, his furni- 
ture, his pictures, and all that is his, that it makes one 
feel less disposed to accord it ; and then he seems so dis- 
satisfied that his guests are not surprised or ehlouis by 
his grandeur, that it makes many of them take a spiteful 
pleasure in affecting a nonchalance, even greater than 
they feel.” 

Lord Oriel asked other questions ; but still Lady Oriel 
mentioned not Lord Delmore, and he felt every moment 
more discomposed by her concealment. At length he arose 
from the table, and affecting a careless air, observed — “ I 
heard another version of the fete from Lord Tadcaster, 
at White’s, where I stopped to look over the evening 
papers. He mentioned having seen Lord Delmore 
there.” 

Lady Oriel felt the blood rush up to her very forehead, 
from the consciousness of the false interpretation her hus- 
band might put on her concealment of this fact ; and her 
blushing reminded him of Lord Tadcaster’s remark on 
the subject. 


“ By the by,” said he, with an air of pique Lady 
Oriel had never seen him exhibit before, “ it will be ab- 
solutely necessary for you, either to give up going into 
society where you are likely to meet him, or to conquer 
the habit of blushing at his presence or at the mention of 
his name. Lord Tadcaster commented last night on 
your blushing most becomingly when you caught Lord 
Delmore’s eyes fixed on you ; and you must be aware 
that nothing can be so likely to convey a false impression 
as your betraying any symptom of consciousness with 
regard to him.” 

There was something in the tone and manner with 
which this was said that deeply wounded Lady Oriel. 
She felt that she was misunderstood; and her pride and 
delicacy, but above all, her affection, was wounded. 

Lord Oriel left the room, leaving her to shed tears, al- 
most as bitter as those he had removed from her eyes 
some months before ; and a sense of his injustice mingled 
with her own self-accusations. 

“A few months ago,” thought she, “I could have 
thrown myself into his arms, and confessed the motive 
of the concealment that pains him, without a single men- 
tal reservation. But now confidence is at an end ; for I 
have not fortitude to bear up against the clouded aspect 
and evident unhappiness that any recurrence to that fear- 
ful event in my life produces in him. The conscious- 
ness of my own errors which oppresses me, and betrays 
itself by external marks, instead of meeting sympathy 
from him, who ought to understand me, excites only 
anger or displeasure. I ought to have left him when my 
imprudence had broken down the barriers of confidence ; 
for now, disguise it how I may, we are no longer happy, 
and our happiness no longer depends on each other.” 

When Lord Delmore found that his visits would no- 
longer be received by Lady Oriel, rage and mortification 
took possession of his mind. Not knowing the disco- 
very she had made of the scandal which his attentions 
had excited, he attributed her door being shut to him to 
caprice, or to the representations of some busy, med- 
dling friend. Lord Oriel, from what he had already ob- 


100 


served of him, he was certain, would not have prohibited 
them ; therefore, the blame must rest wholly with Lady 
Oriel, and this manifestation of her perfect indifference 
towards him, was most mortifying to his amour-propre. 

With all his vanity. Lord Delmore never believed that 
he had excited any warmer sentiment than friendship in the 
heart of Lady Oriel, and all hope of this ripening into a 
warmer feeling had long been abandoned. But vanity 
urged the desire of making the world think otherwise ; 
and in proportion as he was convinced of her purity, he 
became anxious to convey to the world an impression to 
the contrary — an impression so easily conveyed in the 
circles in which he lived, where idleness and the love of 
scandal render every new tale certain of a favourable re- 
ception. Positive dislike had taken place of the admira- 
tion he had felt for Lady Oriel, and he inwardly resolved 
that she should suffer for thus casting him off, without a 
word or a line of explanation, after the footing of esta- 
blished friendship on which he had been received by her 
for the last few months. 

He appeared at the clubs with a sombre air — talked of 
going abroad, having now no longer any inducement to 
stay in England — said that Lady Oriel was the most di- 
vine woman on earth, and her lord the most jealous of 
husbands — adding with a smile, that it was strange, but 
true, that husbands never became jealous until it was too 
late to prevent the mischief they dreaded, and only 
locked the door when the treasure was stolen. 

Innuendoes of this kind continually repeated to the 
men of his circles, with confessions which he allowed to 
be wrung from him by the questions of the indiscreet 
women, soon spread the evil reports he was so anxious 
to propagate. When Lady Annersly and some of her 
clique asked him why he no longer appeared with his 
friend Lady Oriel, and how he contrived to exist away 
from her ? — a sigh, a pensive look, and a “ Don’t talk to 
me about it ! — Poor dear soul she is to be pitied, with 
her jealous brute of a husband ! — It is really too bad, to 
have all one’s comfort broken-up in this way !” implied 
all that he wished them to believe, while it also gave 


101 


them to understand, that he was a most attached as well 
as attachable person. 

When such reports had been whispered in the circles 
of society for a week, and commented on in the clubs for 
a fortnight, it is no wonder that they soon after found 
their way into the newspapers, and were blazoned abroad 
with all the piquant emendations that a maliciously dis- 
posed editor could give them, until they assumed a form 
sufficiently palpable to impress the uninquiring with a 
belief that what was so publicly asserted must be true. 

Had Colonel Forrester been in England at this mo- 
ment, the first statement coming from the press would 
have been checked by a legal proceeding against the 
newspaper in which it had appeared, and this would have 
silenced all the others. But he, unfortunately, was ab- 
sent, and the morbid sensibility of Lord Oriel rendered 
him totally unfit for taking any of the necessary steps to 
stop, statements that filled him with indignation and sor- 
row, the falsehood of which he knew, but wanted know^ 
ledge of the world to know how to refute. 

How many people pass through life without having 
acquired, or having sought to acquire, the practical know- 
ledge necessary to render the journey less painful ! and 
how few are so fortunate as to be exempt from the cir- 
cumstances that render slich a knowledge necessary ! 
Lord Oriel, shrinking from the publicity which legal 
steps, as he thought, would give to the scandalous false- 
hoods in question, was little aware that they were the 
only means left him of checking their promulgation ; and 
that the impunity with which paper after paper published 
the scandal was considered as positive proof of its truth. 
His supine and reprehensible negligence, or pride, had 
kept him from acting as the guardian of his wife’s ho- 
nour, and by his morbid feelings and want of worldly 
knowledge, he was now equally unfitted for being its 
avenger. 

Lord Delmore, having excited the sympathy of the fri^ 
voloiis and vicious part of the society to which he 
belonged, and the contempt of the good and sober-minded, 
determined on travelling for a few months. Change of 
scene, he thought, would amuse him, and confirm the 
9 ^ 


102 


impression he wished to convey, that he left England 
because he was separated from Lady Oriel. He was as 
tired of the moors and mountains in Scotland as he had 
been before of the preserves of the best manors in Nor- 
folk and Suffolk ; he had explored the Lakes, and found 
them, as a certain tragic dame was reported to have ex- 
pressed herself with regard to the “vasty deep,” “vastly 
wide and vastly profound.” Wales was familiar to him, 
and, like all familiar things, no longer desirable ; and 
Ireland, with its White-feet and Black-feet, its Shanah- 
vests and Caravats, Captain Rock and Agitators, held 
forth no temptation. To Paris, therefore, he determined 
to go in the first instance, and, if that failed to amuse 
him, to proceed to Italy. 

By one of those extraordinary chances that so often 
arise in this world of chances, the first person he met on 
entering the steam-packet was Mademoiselle La Tour, 
the cl'devant femme de chambre of Lady Oriel. A few 
questions and well-timed compliments elicited from her 
all that she knew, all that she suspected, and all that she 
thought probable about Miladi. “ Milord W’-as one shock- 
ing bete, Miladi unpeu folk, tout a fait exaghee, et tons 
les deux romanesques et s'aimant comme les pigeons ou 
les tourterelles. If Miladi have le bon sens, everything 
so easy, because Miladi do what she like with Milord ; 
mais non, tout au contraire. When she told Miladi all 
what le valet de pied de Milord Delmore had said, Miladi 
dropped in one faint ; Milord runs in, and begin veeping 
enfant ; and malgre she did try to make Miladi 
take de la Jieur d' orange pour ses nerfs, or un peu de 
tilleul. Milord did tell her to go away, and did stay alone 
with Miladi, with de door locked ; and when she came 
again, they have both so red eyes as if they cry beaucoup. 
Yet they were not very angry ; for they did look very 
loving, and Milord kiss Miladi’s hand very much. And 
next day Miladi did pay her, and gwehex un joli cadeau, 
and say she not want her no more ; and so she left her, 
and was now going to set up une boutique dans la Gal- 
lerie de L'Orme; and she hope Milord Delmore be one 
good friend to her, and she be one good friend to Milord; 
for she counsel Milord not keep his valet de pied, 


103 


Monsieur Henri, because he is one bavard ires dange- 
reux, pour un Monsieur qui a du succes comme 
Milord:^ 

The whole secrets of Oriel House were now explained 
to Lord Delinore, and he saw plainly that the plans he 
had followed to produce a misunderstanding between the 
husband and wife, had only united them afresh and more 
tenderly than ever. He felt convinced that all his arts 
would be unavailing to establish himself again sur un 
pied dHntimite with Lady Oriel, and rejoiced that he had 
left England, as his” absence, much more than his pre- 
sence, would confirm people in the belief that he wished 
them to entertain. 

A liberal cadeau from his lordship’s purse found its 
way to the reticule of Mademoiselle, who, while ac- 
cepting it, remarked that “ It was not one wonder Milord 
was so aime par toutes les dames, for Milord was le 
plus joli gargon de Londres, et le plus spirituel 
though, when he left her, she could not resist adding, 
“ et bete comme tons ses compatriotes : he give me un 
cadeau when I cannot do him one service, and he not 
give me when I could. Aussi, he not tell me I have de 
pretty eye and unejolie tournure, which prove he is one 
bete. 

Among the English at Paris, Lord Delmore acted the 
sentimental and serious, but consoled himself for this 
restraint by abandoning his naturally gay spirits to un- 
controlled indulgence in the French circles into which 
he was admitted. Madame la Viscomtesse de Beaure- 
garde, the most spirituelle of the Parisian elegantes, de- 
clared him to be trcs-bien pour un Anglais ; and her 
manner towards him, even more than her words, marked 
that, meme pour un Frangais, he would not have been 
considered otherwise than tres-aimable. 

He passed his time so agreeably at Paris that he 
thought not of crossing the Alps, and was only disturbed 
from the pleasing routine of amusements into which he 
had fallen by letters from England, announcing that his 
pecuniary affairs were so embarrassed that the raising 
supplies became every day more difficult ; and urging 
the necessity of his immediate return, for the purpose of 


104 


adopting some plan of relief. He had long had a vague 
idea that he was ruined, but he had always chased the 
disagreeable reflection from his mind every time it had 
intruded itself. During a London season, who has time 
or inclination to think about his affairs ? and so many 
shooting-parties are made up for the autumn, followed by 
the hunting season at Melton, that one never has a mo- 
ment to give to disagreeable subjects ; so, from year to 
year, Lord Delmore, like many of his contemporaries, 
had gone on, putting off the evil day of examination, 
until a stoppage of the means of prolonging his pleasura- 
ble pursuits, forced on his mind the painful conviction, 
that examination was not only indispensable, but proba- 
bly unavailing. 

“ Well,” thought he, “ if I am ruined, I must only 
sacrifice my inclinations, and marry. This is a bore, to 
be sure, but there is no avoiding it, and,” examining him- 
self in the glass, “ I flatter myself I shall have no great 
difficulty in making myself acceptable.” 

He arrived in London only a few days before the fete 
at Vernon House, and that was the first occasion of his 
appearing in public since his return from Paris. 

On seeing Lady Oriel, his first impulse was to ap- 
proach her ; but, observing the circle around her, even 
he, with all his courage and nonchalance, dared not risk 
the cold reception he had a presentiment he should re-’ 
ceive from her, a reception which would at once serve as 
a refutation to all the evil reports circulated about them. 
He hovered near her, hoping to find her alone for a mo- 
ment, but, when he caught her glance, the expression of 
it convinced him he had better avoid any attempt at ad- 
dressing her, and he saw her leave the room with senti- 
ments much nearer akin to hate than to love. 

The good footing on which she seemed established in 
society was painful to him from two motives ; the first, 
that it seemed as if the evil reports relative to him were 
no longer believed, which was most mortifying to his 
vanity ; and the second, because he wished her to be 
punished for breaking off so uncivilly with him, a crime 
for which he never could forgive her. 

“Your virtuous women are such fools,” thought he; 


105 


“ now Lady Annersly, or Lady Flora Disbrow, or any 
of the women of that clique, would never have dared to 
cast me off, sans menagement^ for fear of provoking me 
to say something against them. But this lady, who has 
allowed me to exhibit myself as the humblest, though 
certainly not as the most unhappy of her adorers, at 
every ball, soiree, and /eie, of last season, until we were 
considered as inseparable as married lovers in the first 
week of the honey-moon, now quietly cuts me, without 
so much as a word, look, or smile, totally regardless of 
my vengeance.” ~ ' 

On leaving the salon, he met Lord Tadcaster, who 
offered to drop him at Crockford’s, and during their drive, 
they talked over the fete. Both agreed that old Vernon 
was a bore, and his daughters a little too demonstrative 
in their desire to wear coronets. 

“ They will have fifty thousand each, 1 understand,” 
said Lord Tadcaster, “ and as much more at the father’s 
death ; a good fortune as times go ; and if I wanted money, 

I should not mind marrying the elder; but that not being 
the case, I will leave her to barter her plum for a straw- 
berry-leaf coronet, the object on earth she most longs for. 

I have no desire to give myself a beau-pere in old Ver- 
non, or a beau frere in my friend and schoolfellow Frank, 
who, I think, is the most disagreeable of the family, per- 
haps because I know him the best.” 

The fifty thousand pounds in possession, and a similar 
sum in reversion, sounded most agreeably in the ears of 
Lord Delmore. _ To the young ladies he had nev.er paid 
any attention, and hardly knew them asunder. But 
rCimporte., he should take the first opportunity of acting 
Vaimable to which of them he found the least disagree- ?! 
able ; and he doubted not his success, provided he could 
conceal the ruinous state of his finances, the dilapidations 
in which became every day more apparent, and rendered 
some speedy relief more indispensable. 

Animated by the cheering prospect of Miss Vernon’s 
thousands, of which already he anticipated the posses- 
sion, and excited by champagne, he sat down to hazard, 
and after three hours’ play, found himself minus as many 
thousands. With an aching head and soured temper, he 


i 


106 


left the splendid salons of Crockford’s, where the gilding 
lavished around seems to mock the dupes whose gold 
has paid for it. 


CHAPTER XX. 

“ She is peevish, sullen, froward, 

Proud, disobedient, stubborn, lacking duty; 

Neither regarding that she is my child. 

Nor fearing me as if I were her father.” 

The fete given by Mr. Vernon passed off, like the 
generality of such amusements, unsatisfactorily to the 
host and the guests; a thousand faults were found with 
the arrangements of it, and chiefly by those who had 
never given, nor were likely to give a fete in their lives ; 
the ices were pronounced to be too cold, the rooms too 
much lighted; and it was discovered that a profusion 
reigned around, which, as the guests repeated to each 
other, clearly proved that the giver was a parvenu, a 
nouveau riche, in short, all but a person comme il faut, 
though decidedly a person comme il en, faut, as the 
world now stood, when money is the passport to society. 

Mr. Vernon had discrimination enough to see that his 
guests were more disposed to sneer than smile, or, if 
they did smile, it was in such a sort, as left little doubt 
that satire, more than pleasure, produced the risible 
movement; and he was as angry and disappointed, at 
what' he termed their ingratitude, as if their amusement 
had been his sole motive in giving the fete, and that an 
ostentatious desire of astonishing them, and forcing their 
admiration and envy, had not been his principal induce- 
ment. People seemed to render him responsible even 
for the badness of the weather, and various comments 
were made on the absurdity of choosing such a night for 
a fete, as if his invitations had only gone forth that day. 
Host and guests stood on equal grounds with regard to 
their feelings towards each other, and both seemed per- 
fectly to understand their mutual estimate. 


The Miss Vernons were the 'most disappointed of all 
the circle, for neither the Marquis of Tadcaster nor Lord 
Durnford had proposed ; though all available arts had 
been tried to draw them to this desired and desirable 
point. The ladies felt that, notwithstanding their address, 
it was but too evident that the said Lords saw the pains 
taken to entrap them, and this conviction served to render 
the would-be entrappers still more mortified at their want 
of success. To have condescended to use such arts and 
give such encouragement, humiliated them in their own 
estimation only because they had not attained their ob- 
ject. Had they succeeded, they would have thought 
little of the means ; as it was, they felt as offended and 
angry at their projects being defeated, as if the Lords in 
question had been the wooers, instead of, as was really 
the case, being the wooed. 

The sisters retired to their chambers, discontented 
with the world and with themselves, and well disposed 
to vent a part of their ill-humour on each other. Before 
separating, Louisa Vernon inquired, “ Well, has Lord 
Tadcaster proposed?” 

“ No,” replied her sister, “ and if he had ” 

“ You would have jumped at him,” interrupted Louisa; 
“ though I know you were now on the point of telling 
me you would have refused him.” 

A look of suppressed rage, and a sneer, repaid this 
remark, as Miss Vernon spitefully replied, “ I do not 
ask you if Lord Durnford has proposed, as your good 
temper explains the state of that affair; so bon soir, ma 
chore soeur!'^ and, humming an air to conceal her mor- 
tification, she quitted her sister. 

The family party met next morning at a late breakfast, 
mutually disposed to find fault with each other, and 
equally discontented with the fete. Mr. Vernon, as was 
usual with him on such occasions, and the occasions 
were not unfrequent, expressed his dissatisfaction with 
Mrs.Vernon’s too great civility to the guests, against the 
greater part of whom he was very acrimonious in his 
remarks, and then stated his displeasure at the too pointed 
attention paid by his daughters to the Lords Tadcaster 
and Durnford. 


108 


The young ladies, little accustomed to be rebuked, 
pouted and looked sulky, and took so little pains to con- 
ceal their discontent, that the angry spirit of their father 
was kindled afresh, and he demanded with a fiery glance, 
if, after all their advances, the young men had proposed? 
“ No,” he added, replying to his own question, “ they 
have not, and I could have sworn they would not: and 
so, after being bored last winter with them in the coun- 
try, shooting all my pheasants, and playing off’ their fine 
airs, it has all come to nothing! Well, young ladies, do 
not frown ; I must allow that this disappointment does 
not arise from want of encouragement on your parts.” 


CHAPTER XXL 

Love wedlock framed in days of old, 

And made the bonds of wreathed flowers, 

But now the chains are forg-ed of gold. 

And Hymen bows to Pluto’s powers. 

Lawyers now take poor Cupid’s place. 

And goose-quills ply ’stead of his pinions, 1 

While scarce a sign of love we trace 
In marriage, erst his own dominions. 

But how could Law and Love agree ? 

There ’s nought in common sure between ’em ; 

Law thinks of quarrels that must be, 

And Love is much too fond to believe ’em. 

Colonel Forrester found his sister in tears, and 
when she told him the cause, he represented to her the 
absolute necessity of her using the most perfect frank- 
ness with Lord Oriel, and conquering all fear- of offend- 
ing or wounding him by intelligence, that, coming 
through others, would be doubly mortifying. 

“ 1 enter into your feelings, my dearest sister,” said 
he, “ and admit that it demands courage to touch on sub- 
jects that one knows will give pain ; but be assured, that 
the appearance of concealment is much more likely to 
wound than the mention of a name which he must often 


109 


hear; and you, by magnifying your own past impru- 
dence, betray a consciousness of it, that will lead the 
malicious part of tha world to draw false conclusions. 
You have no guilt to accuse yourself of, and therefore 
ought to be able to meet Lord Delmore with the calm 
indifference of a common-place acquaintance. Any de- 
viation from this conduct will only tend to revive scandal, 
and confirm evil reports : therefore, when you encounter 
Lord Delmore again, bow to him as to any other casual 
acquaintance. For the few days we shall be in town, 
it is necessary for you to appear as much in the world 
as possible, lest Lord Oriel should fancy that you are 
staying at home to avoid Delmore, or lest others may 
draw the same conclusion. I repeat to you, Louisa, 
that having done nothing to forfeit your own self-respect, 
you are to blame for the timidity you betray, and that, 
with a husband so extremely susceptible as yours is, 
you must conquer it, or else pass your life a martyr to 
its effects.’^ 

When Lady Oriel and Mrs. Forrester were next day 
entering Kensington Gardens for their promenade, they 
met Lady Mary Tremayne, with the Miss Vernons, es- 
corted by Lord Delmore. They stopped to speak for a 
few minutes, and Lady Oriel addressed the customary 
salutation to the latter with cold politeness, which he 
replied to in the same tone. 

The advice of her brother had such a good effect on 
her, that she felt she had, on this trying occasion, con- 
ducted herself without betraying the least emotion, and 
she was rejoiced by this consciousness. 

On riding through the Park, Lord Delmore had seen 
the carriage of the Vernons at the gate at Kensington 
Gardens, and having had a levee of duns that morning, 
with sundry hints from his solicitor and agent, of the 
impossibility of pacifying them much longer, the neces- 
sity of seeking Plutus through the road of Hymen was 
more strongly than ever impressed on his mind ; and he 
resolved to lose no time in cultivating his acquaintance 
with the Miss Vernons. Knowing Lady Mary Tre- 
mayne, their chaperon, he joined the party, and finding 
Miss Vernon the most disposed to smile on him, from' 

VOL. II. - 10 


110 


the recent retreat of Lord Tadcaster, — Miss Louisa still 
entertaining hopes of Lord Durnford, which induced her 
to be more reserved to Delmore, — he acted the agreeable 
so successfully, that the Marquis was forgotten when 
they met Lady Oriel. 

On leaving her, Lady Mary Tremayne, with the ma- 
lice peculiar to her clique, laughingly observed to Lord 
Delmore, that if this was the first meeting he had met 
with his old friend. Lady Oriel, since his return, she 
thought it had passed off very coldly. “ Not a blush, a 
sigh, or even the appearance of trepidation,” added she. 
“ I should have expected, at least, a fainting-fit, and had 
my salts ready in my reticule ; but it seems Lady Oriel 
is superior to this weakness, though she has been ac- 
cused of others.” 

“ Oh ! Lord Delmore must have met Lady Oriel chez 
nous,^’ said Miss Vernon. 

At this moment they were passing through the gate, 
when Lord Delmore, with an expressive look at Miss 
Vernon, replied, that he had not seen Lady Oriel at the 
fete, because he had eyes for only one lady there, and 
who could look at any other woman when Miss Vernon 
was present? 

The young lady was as much gratified as surprised at 
the compliment, and congratulated herself on having 
already so well supplied the place of Lord Tadcaster ; 
who, notwithstanding all the encouragement given to 
him, had never said anything half so warm to her. 

“ Their hearts are different,” thought she, little 
imagining that the difference was not in their hearts, but 
in their purses, and that if Lord Delmore’s was only half 
as well filled as that of the Marquis, he would have been 
even more chary of his compliments. 

They parted mutually gratified. Having ascertained 
that they would be at the Opera, Lord Delmore pressed 
the hand of his belle on assisting her to her carriage, 
and with a tender look rode away. 

When the ladies began discussing his pretensions, — a 
common habit with ladies as well as gentlemen when 
any one leaves their circle, — Lady Mary Tremayne ob- 
served, that certainly Lord Delmore was a very delight- 


ful person, handsome, clever, and agreeable. “ I never 
see him,” said she, “ without being renainded of the 
compliment paid by Madame du Deffand to La Princesse 
de Talmont’s appearance, when she said she had “/’air 
distinguh sans etre singuliere,^' — the most rare thing 
in the world. 

Lady Mary Tremayne’s opinion had great weight 
with the Vernons, merely because they knew she was 
very much a la mode; and consequently her praise 
raised Lord Delmore not a little in their estimation. 
Still there was enough of the family love of riches in the 
young ladies, to induce them to inquire if he had a large 
fortune, and sufficient amour propre for her order de 
noblesse in Lady Mary, to engage her to answer, “ Cer- 
tainly,” though she was totally ignorant on the subject ; 
and she added : — “ not only has he a large fortune, but 
in case his uncle dies without marrying, which is very 
likely, he is heir to a Dukedom.” 

This last piece of intelligence quite achieved the con- 
quest of Miss Vernon’a head, — for her heart was out of 
the question in her case — the only proof of her possess- 
ing that necessary organ in the economy of the human 
frame, being a certain palpitation at the left side after 
dancing. 

Discomfited as she had been by the retreat of Lord 
Tadcaster, without even leaving her the prospect of a 
proposal from him at any future time, nothing could be 
more opportune as a salve to her wounded vanity, than 
this new and brilliant conquest. Having left Lady Mary 
Tremayne at home, she could hardly, during her drive 
to Carlton Gardens, resist showing her triumph to her 
sister, sundry hints of which were given, and as care- 
fully refused to be accepted by Miss Louisa, who had 
too much vanity and pretension of her own, to bear pa- 
tiently with the display of her sister’s. Nay, the insinua- 
tions of her conquest, so broadly given by Miss Vernon, 
almost determined her soeur cadet to enter the lists with 
her, to dispute Lord Delmore’s preference, and influenced 
her to take even more than usual pains in her toilette of 
the evening, and to aflfect un air empresse towards Lord 


112 


Delmore, which she hoped might distract his attention 
from her sister. 

Mrs. Vernon had accompanied her daughters to the 
Opera, and was astonished to observe the vivacity with 
which they tried to captivate the new beau. He, with 
his usual tact, divided his attentions so equally, as to 
alarm Miss Vernon, and give hopes to Miss Louisa, ren- 
dering both more anxious to secure him ; and he was so 
respectful to Mrs. Vernon, that he interested even her in 
his favour. 

Lord Durnford’s entrance to the box changed the 
scene, by renewing Miss Louisa’s hopes ; and she now 
devoted her undivided attention to him, leaving her sister 
free to occupy all that of Lord Delmore ; who, anxious 
to lose no time, plied her with compliments too plain to 
be mistaken, and too well received, to leave any doubt 
of the final success of the needy cajoler. 

Miss Louisa, finding Lord Durnfbrd’s attention by no 
means keep pace witli her wishes, became indignant at 
observing the familiarity that seemed to have been esta- 
blished between Miss Vernon and Lord Delmore since 
she had commenced her conversation with Lord Durn- 
ford. To interrupt it, she pointedly asked the latter, if 
that was not his friend Lord Tadcaster in the box at the 
opposite side ? and being answered in the affirmative, she 
spitefully observed, that he had been for the last two 
hours so occupied with the lady next him, that she had 
not been able to see who the lady was, his head being 
continually interposed between them. 

Miss Vernon felt all the malice of the remark, and 
well knew the feeling that dictated it: but it only served 
to make her more anxious to secure her present con- 
quest, to accomplish which she redoubled her complai- 
sance to him. 

On passing through the round room, leaning on the 
arm of Lord Delmore, she was most disagreeably sur- 
prised by finding Lord Tadcaster giving his arm to her 
cousin Mary Vernon, to whom he appeared to be paying 
marked attention ; while Mrs. Henry Vernon, leaning 
on her nephew, stood by her daughter, exulting in the 


113 


admiration her beauty excited, and the evident conquest 
which that beauty had achieved ; for Lord Tadcaster’s 
assiduity was too undisguised to be mistaken. 

How did Miss Vernon now rejoice, that Lord Del- 
more’s attendance saved her from the mortifying position 
of hemgdelaissee ! and he who was aufait of the encou- 
ragement given to Lord Tadcaster, determined to take 
advantage of the pique his desertion must excite in the 
breast of the young lady, who, he was certain, would be 
now most anxious to prove that her affections had never 
been engaged to Lord Tadcaster, by openly displaying a 
preference , for himself. 

Occupied as Lord Delmore was in securing the prize 
he souglit, he was forcibly struck by the beauty of Mary 
Vernon, and wondered not that Lord Tadcaster had 
found it so irresistible. “ When do you start for Scot- 
land ?” asked Delmore. 

“ I know not,”, replied the other; “perhaps not at 
all.” And then turning to Mary Vernon, he resumed 
his conversation with her, with an air of interest that 
betrayed how much she influenced the sudden change 
in his plans. 

Louisa Vernon cast sundry malicious glances at her 
sister* as if she wished to say, “ You see you have been 
months trying to retain him, and Mary only knows him 
one day, and the shooting-party is abandoned.” 

Nothing of all this sisterly intention was lost on Miss 
Vernon ; for those who are the most malicious, are the 
most sensible of the malice of others. Her conquest of 
Delmore alone enabled her to meet it “ with decent dig- 
nity.” How could she be grateful enough to him for 
saving her from a position so embarrassing to her vanity ? 
But one way suggested itself, and she readily adopted it 
— that of leaving no means untried to convince him of 
the pleasure his attentions conferred. Eredie handed her 
to the carriage, he had made all but a positive declara- 
tion, and she had done all but accept him. 

The next day the Miss Vernons found themselves at 
Kensington Gardens, chaperoned by Mrs. Murray, a lady 
whose sole recommendation was, that she passed for 
being fashionable ; a distinction due to a large fortune, 
10 * 


114 


and a fondness for rank, which induced her to sacrifice 
all her time, and much of her wealth, to assemble round 
her all who could boast it, provided they were of the 
elite. She condescended to chaperon the Vernons occa- 
sionally, because they were considered “ catches” by 
the younger sons of many of the Lady Mammas of her 
acquaintance, and it gave her an importance with them ; 
and the young ladies preferred her as a chaperon to 
many others, because she knew everybody, and was 
past the age of pretending to attention for herself. 

Lord Delmore met them accidentally, though Miss 
Louisa’s spiteful glance at her sister seemed to insinuate 
that the meeting was not one of chance ; and the pertina- 
city with which she engrossed the conversation of his 
Lordship, betrayed her determination to* interrupt the 
confidential entretien she supposed her sister wished to 
hold with him. 

Next to forwarding her own personal interest, was the 
pleasure Miss Louisa felt in defeating that of her sister ; 
and on this point, if on no other, a perfect sympathy ex- 
isted between them. Had Lord Durnford, or any other 
fashionable beau been present, with whom Miss Louisa 
could have commenced a flirtation, she would have per- 
mitted Miss Vernon to engross the attentions of Lord 
Delmore without interruption; but to be compelled to 
fall back on Mrs. Murray, and leave her sister mistress 
of the field, was out of the question ; so she maintained . 
an uninterrupted fire of words, smiles, and sallies, that.;--?^ 
scarcely allowed time for her mortified and angry sis- 
ter’s edging in a word, and made Lord Delmore ready 
to exclaim, 

“ How happy could I. be with either 

nay, almost led him to fear, that both ladies had made 
up their minds to share his coronet ; an intention which 
he foresaw would be very embarrassing to him. 

Miss Vernon pouted and sulked, because she wished 
her admirer to give some decided proof that she was the 
object of his attention ; and this he was too well bred to- 




115 


do in the present state of affairs, knowing that such a step 
would make an active enemy of Miss Louisa, 

The party sauntered along the umbrageous walk, un- 
mindful of the beautiful verdure, and all that Nature of- 
fered to charm them, occupied with feelings little in har- 
mony with the calm scene around, when, arriving at the 
end of the walk, they encountered Mrs. and Miss Bur- 
rell, escorted by Lord Durnford. The Miss Vernons 
stopped to speak to their aunt and cousin. 

Now was the turn of the elder sister to cast spiteful 
glances at Miss Louisa, as if to show her, that she ob- 
served something more than common in the attentions 
Lord Durnford was paying Emily Burrell ; and when, 
after exchanging a few common-place remarks, the par- 
ties separated. Miss Vernon observed aloud, “that Lord 
Durnford seemed to be very much in love with her cou- 
sin,” though she could have seen nothing to justify the 
opinion in the few minutes they had been together, and 
it was said solely from the wish of wounding her sister. 

We may be told this is not nature, and that such cha- 
racters as the Miss Vernons do not exist: they are fortu- 
nate who have not met such ; but we believe few are so 
lucky ; for every day’s experience proves that society 
offers many examples where the ties of kindred, instead 
of being considered as bonds of union, are looked on as 
fetters that bind discordant souls together, and give a pri- 
vilege to each for venting the acrimonious observations 
and ill-natured hints w'hich good breeding banishes from 
mere acquaintances. 

Politeness, that cementer of friendship and soother of 
enmities, is nowhere so much required, and sc frequently 
outraged, as in family circles ; V aimable franchise which 
near relationship is considered to warrant, serves as an 
excuse for all the disagreeable truths that enemies disco- 
ver, but that only friends can tell the possessor. Friends 
can see defects with the naked eye, however weak that 
organ may be ; but too frequently require magnifying 
glasses to discover good qualities. 

How strange is it that people should not feel, what 
every hour’s experience must tend to prove — the neces- 
sity of practising politeness. With strangers and acquaint- 


116 


ances, all admit the necessity of observing it; but in 
nearer, and what ought to be dearer connexions, it is 
continually abandoned, and the consequence is, that all 
the illusions of life are destroyed, and with them much 
of the happiness ; for we are unfitted to receive or be- 
stow it, if we have been told of faults or defects, mental 
or personal, the discovery of which destroys our self- 
confidence, and sours us towards the discoverer. 

By politeness we would not be understood to mean 
the flattering insincerity that too often passes current for 
it, and than which nothing can be more different. For- 
bearance towards errors and defects, and a just appre- 
ciation of good qualities, joined to mildness and good 
breeding, is what we would inculcate, as the surest 
means of preserving domestic harmony, and of promot- 
ing domestic affection. Half the pains bestowed to con- 
ciliate acquaintances, might turn relations into friends ', 
a metamorphosis more rare and diflicult to be accom- 
plished than most people imagine. 

It was Cosmo de’ Medici who observed, that “we are 
commanded to forgive our enemies, but not our friends,” 
implying that the injuries or wrongs inflicted on us by 
the latter are unpardonable. One thing is quite certain, 
namely, that we have more frequently occasion to forgive 
those who are reputed to be our friends, than our ene- 
mies, and the injuries they commit are more pernicious 
and lasting in their effects. 

At dinner at Mr. Vernon’s, Miss Louisa observed, that 
Lord Tadcaster seemed wholly occupied with her cousin 
Mary the night before, a piece of intelligence that seemed 
to mortify her father even still more than it had done her 
sister. “ Where could they have made his acquaintance ?” 
demanded the parvenu, as if he was the only nouveau 
riche who received Lords. But when his son observed 
that Lord Tadcaster had asked him, the night of the fete, 
if Mrs. Henry Vernon and her daughter were in the 
room, and showed evident symptoms of disappointment 
at discovering they were not, Louisa said, with a bitter 
smile, “ Oh ! then I suppose his tendresse for Mary is of 
some date.” Vernon cast a look of rage at her, and 
of contempt at Miss Vernon for having been duped into 


the belief that she was the object of Lord Tadcaster’s 
attentions. 

Mrs. Vernon really pitied the mortification of her 
daughter, and felt grieved at the imkindness of Louisa, 
who thus increased it ; but Miss Vernon, with an air of 
affected nonchalance, changed the subject, by telling her 
mother that they had met Mrs. Burrell and Emily, es- 
corted by Lord Durnford, at Kensington-Gardens, and 
that he seemed much smitten with Emily.’ 

This completed the ill-humour of Mr. Vernon, who 
observed, that he should not at all wonder if both the 
Lords proposed to their cousins, though he was quite 
sure no pains would bejaken to induce them to do so, 
for neither Mr. Henry Vernon nor Mr. Burrell filled 
their houses in the winter with stupid young men, as 
some others were foolish enough to do, who after all had 
their daughters left on their hands, season after season ; 
a reproach that deeply wounded the vanity of the young 
ladies, and showed the want of feeling of the father. 


CHAPTER XXII. 

“ Love is a passion whose effects are various ; 

It ever brings some change upon the soul, 

Some virtue, or some vice, till then unknown. 
Degrades the hero, and makes cowards valiant. 

“ As love can exquisitely bless, ^ 

Love only feels the marvellous of pain ; ' 

Opens new veins of torture in the soul, 

And wakes the nerve where agonies are born.^* 

The morning of the departure of the Desmond parly 
arrived, and Lord and Lady Oriel joined it with alacrity; 
he to be away from the possibility of meeting Lord Del- 
more, who was hateful to him, and she to be removed 
from the busy world, which had become irksome to her. 
Coldness and restraint had subsisted between them since 
the luckless night of the fete at Vernon House, but it 
was not the coldness or restraint of sated affection or in- 


difference ; it was the forced calm of a too warm interest 
that feared to trust itself to words. 

The contrarieties that had arisen to cloud the horizon 
of Lord Oriel’s wedded life, had awakened the slumber- 
ing energies of his love, and the doubts and fears that in 
general precede marriage, had in. this instance followed 
it ; for never had either the husband or wife been so 
anxiously alive to their mutual feelings as at present. 
They were not happy, but they were not indifferent, and 
we all know it is easier to still the waves of passion, 
than to break the dead sea of indifference, which, like 
the lake Asphaltes, destroys the energies of all that ap- 
proach it, until, like the birds who are said to drop life- 
less on its dull surface, the heart sinks to rise no more. 

No sooner had the party felt themselves free from the 
confined air of London, and the shackles which its 
conventional modes impose, than their spirits appeared 
relieved as if from a load that oppressed them, and cheer- 
fulness took place of the former restraint of Lord and 
Lady Oriel. Neither had ever travelled the route they 
were now pursuing ; the objects that presented them- 
selves were fresh, and acted as a stimulus to their feel- 
ings, diverting them from the beaten track that had lately 
and painfully occupied them. 

ArHved in Wales, the rural inns, rustic attendants, 
picturesque points of view, and above all, the Welsh 
harpers, offered such new and piquant attractions, that 
they expressed themselves charmed with their journey, 
and when they reached Holyhead, where they found the 
excellent and amiable Captain Skinner on hospitable 
thoughts intent, waiting to conduct them to his comforta- 
ble residence, where a good dinner awaited them ; they 
allowed that Irish hospitality extends even to this side 
of the water, and duly appreciated the reception which 
the veneration and affection entertained for the Desmonds 
had insured for them. 

They embarked the next day, under the auspices of the 
good and agreeable Captain Skinner, and favoured by 
propitious gales, made a quick and pleasant passage. 
The Hill of Howth, lifting its blue head to the skies, 
and standing forth as a guarditin to the island it bounds ; 


119 


the Wicklow mountains fading into distance, and the 
beautiful bay, with all the picturesque scenery that en- 
circles three of its sides, struck them with wonder and 
delight, and they could not resist expressing their sur- 
prise that a scene so calculated to excite admiration was 
so little talked of or written about that it burst on them 
unawares. 

No sooner were they landed on terra-firma than they 
were surrounded by groups of beggars, all beseeching 
their charity, love, and pity in the various tone of East- 
ern, Western, Southern, and Northern brogues, as rich 
and mellifluous in sound as flowery in sense. The 
Creator, Heaven, the Saints, and Angels, were all called 
in as witnesses to the necessities and merits of the peti- 
tioners. One declared that food had not passed his lips 
for days, though the steams that issued from them bore 
witness that liquids of the strongest quality had not been 
excluded — and another averred that she was dying, in 
language that proved it was not from inanition. An 
old woman vowed that the last breath of life was leaving 
her, as a blue vapoury smoke emitted from her lips, — 
proceeding from a short pipe stuck in the corner of her 
mouth, and sending forth nearly as much smoke as a 
small steam-engine, — gave signal that the mechanical 
powers which impelled it were in full vigour : while a 
lame man, who hopped with extraordinary velocity on 
his crutch, catching the halfpence that were thrown 
amongst them, called the Saints to witness that he was 
a poor cripple who could not move hand or foot, and 
was obliged to pay a creathur to put the snuff into his 
nose. 

“ Sure if you are,” said a blind man, who was near 
him, “ you can find the way to your mouth purty well, 
without paying any one, except the shebean shop.” 

“ Arrah what’s that to you, Cupid ?” replied the crip- 
ple. “ I wish 1 had half as much mountain dew in my 
stomach as you have, although I’d then be almost as 
blind.” 

While breakfast was being prepared at Howth, the 
gentlemen strolled through the village, and seeing a group 
standing round a piece of water, they stopped to examine 


120 




what was going on. A man was endeavouring to get his 
dog to jump into the water after a stick ; but all his ef- 
forts were vain, and each failure produced peals of laugh- 
ter from the bystanders. 

“ Does your dog often take to the wather ?” asked one 
of them with a sly look. 

“ Yes, sure, when there’s plenty of oaten or barley- 
meal on it,” replied the other; and the group acknow- 
ledged the pleasantry with shouts of laughter. 

The blind beggar now joined the party, and a wag, 
who seemed a privileged person, asked him — “Well, 
Cupid, if you had a glass of whiskey given you, what 
religion would you make it ?” 

“ Faith, I’d make it a Protestant !” replied he ; “ for 
I’d take the beads off it any way.” 

There was something so new to Lord Oriel in seeing 
misery sporting jests, that he could not resist giving a 
shilling to Cupid, who prayed that his Honour and Grace 
might, like him, never be able to discover that a rosy 
cheek can fade and a sparkling eye grow dim. “ And 
sure, your Honour,” added the mendicant, “ that’s more 
than my namesake Cupid can say ; for by all accounts, 
though he’s blind, he soon finds out a change in beauty, 
and does not much like other people’s mothers though 
he’s so fond of his own.” 

Mr. Desmond was amused with Lord Oriel’s astonish- 
ment at the naivete of his countrymen, and led the way 
to the stand of jingles and jauntii>g-cars at the entrance 
to the town, in order that he might see some specimens 
of the rare genius to which the drivers of these vehicles 
belong. They were sauntering about with stockings half 
wrinkled over their legs, great-coats hanging over their 
shoulders, and each with a short pipe in the corner of his 
mouth, whose column of smoke seemed to direct its 
course towards the eye that overlooked it. 

A fat Englishman, whose rotundity of person spoke 
more for his good living than for his abstemiousness, 
was endeavouring to make a bargain with one of the 
drivers ; and having declared that he would not pay more 
than eighteen-pence to be conveyed to Dublin, the driver, 
after examining him from head to foot, pulled off his 


121 




great-coat and threw it over the head of his horse, and 
then advancing, offered to assist his passenger to mount 
the jaunting-car. 

“ Why, what do you mean by covering your horse’s 
head in that there way?” asked the Englishman. 

“ Main ?” said the driver ; “ faith, I main that he 
should not see you ; for if oncet he set his two good- 
looking eyes on that bread-basket of your’s, he’d not stir 
a step to save my life, he’s so ’cute.” 

They entered the meat-market, and Lord Oriel was 
gratified at observing the cleanliness that reigned around, 
which he had not been prepared to expect. A fat, 
elderly man was looking at the meat in one of the stalls, 
and Ihe butcher addressed him, hoping that he would 
become a customer. The man declined, saying he was 
merely a traveller, who had stopped to look around 
him. 

“ Oh ! sure if that ’s the case,” answered the butcher, 
“ will you just do me the favour to let me call the 
buyers and tell ’em you deal with me ? for, as you are 
in such a condition, it will be the making of me.” 

The fat man passed rapidly on, apparently ill-satisfied 
with the compliment paid to his obesity ; and Lord Oriel 
observed to Mr. Desmond, that even while transacting 
their business, it seemed that the Irish could not resist 
a joke. 

“ It is very true,” replied the latter ; “ and so s ij^ng 
is this tendency to the ridiculous in their natures, that it 
mingles even with what is most grave, and renders it 
doubtful when they are in earnest. They are a fine 
race, full of generous sentiments, but volatile, unsteady, 
and inflammable, partaking much of the qualities of the 
Lazzaroni of Naples, but more fiery ; a distinction which 
may originate in the difference of their favourite beve- 
rages, the lemonade and aqua fresca of the Neapolitan 
being more cooling than the whisky of the Irish.” 

When they returned to the inn they found a crowd of 
beggars still around the door ; who having discovered 
that an English Lord was among the arrivals, hoped his 
Lordship’s Honour and Glory would tell the English 
when he went back, “ that they (the Irish) were as quiet 

VOL. II. 11 


122 


as saints, and not to mind the Agitator, who was pre- 
venting all the grandees from coming over to ’em, — sure 
more shame to him and the likes of him, who wanted 
to keep the country all to himself and his party.” 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

“ For this the foolish, over-careful fathers 
Have broke their sleep with thoughts, their brains with care, 
Their bones with industry.’* 

“How quickly nature 

Falls to revolt when gold becomes his object.** • 

Lord Delmore pursued Miss Vernon as her shadow 
until he had succeeded in exciting an interest in her 
mind, we will not say heart, that assured him of his in- 
fluence over her destiny. To propose for her by the 
regular proceeding of demanding the consent of papa, 
would, he was well aware, be a useless measure, as it 
would lead to sundry awkward questions relative to rent- 
rolls, settlements, <fec. which he knew must terminate in 
an expose, as little likely to satisfy the paternal feelings 
of a cautious father as of clamorous creditors ; he there- 
fore considered it wiser to engage the affections, or 
rath-ar let us call them, the affectations, of the young 
lady, and by an elopement assure himself of her hand, 
and trust to paternal and maternal affection for pardon. 

Miss Vernon had experienced the withering influence 
of five seasons ; a lustre that unfortunately adds no lus- 
tre to female charms, though it marvellously tends to 
quicken and enlighten the perception of spinsters, and, 
in decreasing their attractions, increases their experience. 
She, therefore, determined to accept what she considered 
o be the disinterested offer of Lord Delmore, who de- ‘ 
dared that he loved her too passionately to contemplate 
“ the law’s delay,” and that he dared not on this account 
formally demand her hand of her father. 

What a triumph to a heartless coquette of twenty-two 
was this ftvowal ! an avowal she had been almost tempt- 


123 


ed to believe would never be made, from the ill-natured 
insinuations of her sister, who had proved herself to be 
Lord Delmore’s best friend, by appearing to doubt the 
sincerity of his sentiments for Miss Vernon. How de- 
lightful to demonstrate tb the world, and above all to her 
sister, that she was sought for herself alone ! There was 
no resisting this temptation ; more especially when the 
lover insinuated that her sister had tried to be her rival : 
and she consented to elope with a man, who, if his 
statement relative to her sister had been true, was, from 
disclosing it, unworthy of her preference. 

The persons most easily duped are the thoroughly 
good, who, unsuspicious of evil intentions, detect them 
not ; or the frivolous and callous, who pique themselves 
too’much on their worldly knowledge and wisdom, to 
believe that they can be overmatched. Miss Vernon 
was of the latter class, and fell a victim to her heartless- 
ness. The elopement was judiciously planned, and as 
judiciously executed. 

On returning from the last ball of the season, having 
previously arranged with her femme de chambre, she 
found her moveables packed up for flight. When the 
porter slept, she, with noiseless tread, descended from 
her chamber, and, aided by Mademoiselle La Ruse, con- 
veyed the few' articles she thought necessary to the hall- 
door, whence Lord Delmore and his valet de chambre 
assisted in removing them to the travelling carriage in 
waiting ; which soon whirled the artificial lovers on the 
road to marriage, and — repentance. 

The first expression of Miss Vernon was — “ Well, 
I ’ ve triumphed over my sister ! how angry she will be !” 
And the apparent complacency with which this supposi- 
tion w’-as dwelt on mortified the amour propre of the 
lover, who felt as angry as if he was indeed a lover, and 
as if the idea of outwitting the father, mother, sister, 
brother, nay, the young lady herself, had not been a 
principal motive in the affair. 

When we are conscious of the selfishness of our own 
motives, we feel the least disposed to pardon, and the 
most disposed to resent, the selfishness of others. As 
Lord Delmore looked on the soulless face of his future 


124 


bride, and listened to the heartless reflections she uttered, 
he cursed the poverty that compelled him to the step he 
was taking ; and the indifTerence he had hitherto expe- 
rienced towards her, was turned to loathing. 

Even she was struck with the increasing coldness of 
his manner, and tried to awaken interest by affected 
agitation and timidity. But it was all too late ! his 
vanity, the only sensitive point in his character, was 
wounded ; and as it was now impossible for her to retract 
he was careless of other consequences. A runaway daugh 
ter could only present herself as a wife before her angry 
parents ; and, therefore,^ he little troubled himself to 
conciliate the affection of one who was too completely 
in his power to assert her own dignity or indepen- 
dence. 

Gretna Green, that blacksmith’s shop where chains are 
forged that often gall for life, was at length reached by the 
worldly-minded pair; and, the ceremony being performed, 
they set out on their return to England, as little like mar- 
ried lovers, as if the nuptial knot had been tied some 
fifty years before. A repentant letter, announcing the 
marriage, was despatched to Mr. Vernon from the first 
English town on their route, and they gradually pur- 
sued their journey towards London, as ennuyh as two 
people can be who have discovered when too late that 
they have been duped, and who despise the selfishness 
and heartlessness that have mutually deceived them, 
without reflecting that each was equally culpable. 

On their arrival at Thomas’s Hotel, they expected a 
letter of forgiveness, and recall to the paternal mansion 
in Carlton Gardens ; instead of this, they found a cold 
and austere epistle from Mr. Vernon, stating that, as his 
consent to their marriage had never been demanded. Lord 
and Lady Delmore could not feel surprised at his with- 
holding the provision he had intended for his daughter, 
a provision that he had always meant should be condi- 
tional on the fortune of the husband, and on the settle- 
ment to be made on the wife. He added, that he had no 
objection to receive Lord and Lady Delmore as occasional 
guests at his house, but more than this concession they 
were not to expect. 


125 


When Lord Delmore perused this letter, he turned to 
his bride, and asked her if she had anticipated a severity 
so unnatural, and if she thought that firmness or obsti- 
nacy Vere equally as strong as the selfishness now appa- 
rent in her father. ^ 

“ I felt quite sure,” replied the amiable Lady Delmore, 
“ that papa would act as he has done. Avarice and 
ostentation are his ruling passions ; he wished myself 
and sister to wear coronets, but to buy them at the 
cheapest price. He would have parted with some thou- 
sands to accomplish this end ; but as I have effected it 
for myself without his assistance, he is too happy to 
save his money ; so that it is probable we shall never 
see a guinea of his. Mais n'importe; you have a suffi- 
ciently large fortune not to be g;ene by this, which had I 
not known, I should not, knowing as I have always done 
the avarice of papa, have consented to the elopement.” 

Her words, and the cool, unconcerned air with which 
they were uttered, spoke daggers to Lord Delmore. A 
sentiment of hatred and contempt arose in his mind to- 
wards her, which triumphed over the restraint that polite- 
ness had hitherto imposed on him. 

“ What will your Ladyship think then,” replied he, 
“ when I tell you that I have been for a long time an 
embarrassed man ? You may start, and look astonished,” 
observing the half-incredulous, half-terrified air of his 
wife, “ but it is nevertheless true ; and if your father 
does not assist us, utter ruin must be the consequence.” 

“ Then you did not, after all, marry me for myself,” 
exclaimed the angry and humiliated lady : “the expecta- 
tion of a fortune was the inducement? What a triumph 
to my sister to discover that I have wedded a ruined 
man !” 

Here a violent passion of tears and sobs interrupted 
her utterance. 

“ You at least. Madam,” said Lord Delmore, “ ought 
not to reproach me with interested motives, as it appears 
quite clear you would not have eloped with me had you 
known the real state of my affairs. Recrimination is 
useless ; we have committed a betisey and all that now 
remains to us is to remedy it as well as we can. You 
11 ^ 


126 


must assail your father, and try to induce him to com 
down handsomely, for we have no other resource.” 

“ If you knew my father as well as I do,” answered 
the weeping lady Delmore, “ you would be aware that 
all appeals to him will be unavailing. He is impractica- 
ble on money matters ; and' — oh! — oh!” (bursting into 
a fresh torrent of tears,) “ I, who have been all my life 
accustomed to splendour, now find myself married to one 
who only sought me for the wealth he believed me to 
possess.” 

Disgusted with this unrestrained exhibition of her 
selfishness, and venting execrations on her and himself, 
Lord Delmore retired to his chamber, leaving his wife 
alone to weep mingled tears of mortified vanity and 
rage. 

She had never loved Lord Delmore, even when she 
believed him rich and great ; but now that she knew he 
was poor, she almost hated him. She looked on herself 
as a victim to his arts, though she had been quite as 
willing to be the deceiver as he was to deceive. But so 
it is ever : we condemn the faults by which we suffer, 
but rarely pass a just sentence on those we commit our- 
selves, or pity the consequences they entail. 

Lady Delmore passed a sleepless night, the first she 
had ever yet known. The more she reflected on her 
future prospects, the more gloomy did they appear. 
Accustomed from her infancy to consider money as the 
primum mobile of life, it had never for a moment entered 
her mind, that a possibility existed of her finding herself 
without it. She felt that the most attractive man, with 
the highest rank, could never have tempted her to marry, 

, if she knew he were poor : and yet, with this worldly 
wisdom, to be united to a ruined man ; to have no means 
of indulging the extravagant tastes with which she had 
been brought up : — there was misery in the thought ! 
Lady Delmore had consoled herself for the coldness of 
her husband on the route, by anticipating future splen- 
dour. Dreams of her house, equipages, plate, diamonds, 
and Opera-box, had beguiled the weary hours of the 
journey ; and the triumph with which she would exhibit 
them to the envious eyes of her sister, had added poig- 


127 


nancy to the pleasure they afforded in contemplation. 
But all these gay visions faded away before the fearful 
reality of poverty that her alarmed fancy now conjured 
up ; and the supercilious smiles or mock pity of her sis- 
ter were mingled in all the pictures her imagination 
formed of the future. 

After much reflection she decided, that the wiser plan 
would be for them to conceal their embarrassments as 
long as they could, as Mr. Vernon would be more likely 
to make them some advance, the less he was aware of 
its absolute necessity. Pride and ostentation might in- 
duce him to present a portion to the rich Lord Delmore, 
that the needy son-in-law had no chance of receiving ; 
for if there was one thing on earth that Mr. Vernon de- 
tested more and pitied less than another, it was poverty. 
He viewed it, not as a misfortune, but as a crime, and 
carefully avoided all contact with those he suspected of 
being stamped by it. 

“ No ! no !” said Lady Delmore to herself, “ if he 
discovers our ruin, we have nothing to hope from him ; 
and my sister will aggravate our misfortunes. From my 
brother I must not expect sympathy : my mother is the 
only one in that gilded palace who will feel for me.” 

This was the first moment for years that an affection- 
ate sentiment towards her mother had entered the heart 
of Lady Delmore. Selfish and worldly-minded herself, 
all her sympathies had been with her father ; but now 
that trouble had overtaken her, and poverty menaced her 
with its train of evils, she turned towards the gentle and 
generous being she had hitherto slighted and underva- 
lued. 

Lady Delmore attired herself with care next day, and 
stepped into the well-appointed chariot, emblazoned with 
the coronet she had so long sighed for ; and, as the two 
footmen in splendid liveries jumped up behind, and the 
coachman drove off from Thpmas’s Hotel to Carlton Gar- 
dens, she almost forgot her cares in the pleasure of 
exhibiting this tasteful equipage and its aristocratic deco- 
rations to her sister. 

When the servants at her father’s house announced 
the Countess of Delmore, she assumed a dignified air, as 


128 


she passed through the file of powdered menials, and was 
shown into the library, where she found her father, 
brother, and sister. They received her civilly, but coldly : 
her father, after touching her cheek with his, addressed 
her as follows : — 

“ I do not reproach you. Lady Delmore, with the in- . 
decorous manner in which you have accomplished a mar- 
riage, that, if suitable in point of fortune, could have met 
with no obstacle from me, to render such a clandestine 
step necessary. I repeat, I do not reproach you, and 
for two reasons]: the first, that it would be now useless ; 
and the second, that its consequences can affect only 
yourself, and can be nothing to me.” 

The new Countess drew up with a hauteur which led 
her father to believe that Lord Delmore’s finances were 
in a more flourishing state than he had been led to ima- 
gine, from the result of the inquiries he had instituted ; 
and, as Mr. Vernon was one of those who believed, 
judging from his own feelings, that hauteur was a certain 
sign of wealth, this belief induced him to show a little 
more cordiality to his daughter, which increased in pro- 
portion to her airs of affected dignity. Her brother and 
sister went through the same ceremony of kissing her 
cheek. The former carelessly demanded where was 
Delmore, and she coldly replied, that Lord Delmore 
was gone to call on the Premier. 

Having asked for her mother. Miss Vernon conducted 
her to the boudoir^ and during their passage to it, made 
two or three spiteful observations, which convinced her 
sister that she had lost none of her ill-nature. 

The reception from Mrs. Vernon was kind and affec- 
tionate : she embraced her daughter, who, as she felt 
herself pressed to the heart of her mother with a warmth 
so different from the reception she had experienced from 
the rest of the family, inwardly acknowledged, that good- 
ness and virtue are the only props that fail not, even to 
the erring, when they seek them. 

“ I am anxious to see your husband, my dear child,” 
said Mrs. Vernon, “ that we should no longer be stran- 
gers to each other. If, as I trust will be the case, he 
makes you happy, I shall love him as a son.” 



129 


The new-made wife sighed, as she felt how little was 
her chance of happiness ; but she tried to look cheerful. 

Determined to mortify her sister for the malicious 
sneers she had detected on her countenance, Lady Del- 
more remarked, that now she was a married woman, she 
would chaperone her when she liked ; adding, that Lord 
Delmore’s high and extensive connections would, of 
course, widely extend the circle of her acquaintance. 
With true parvenu bad taste, she dwelt on the different 
Dukes, Duchesses, Marquises, and Marchionesses, who 
were the near relations of her lord, and with whom she 
should henceforth live ; while her sister sat listening, 
ready to burst with envy and jealousy, the effusions of 
which she could scarcely suppress. 

When Lady Delmore arose to depart, she asked Miss 
Vernon if she was disposed for a drive, and the latter 
having consented, withdrew to prepare for it. Mrs. Ver- 
non beckoned her daughter to her chair, and taking her 
hand with affection, addressed her in the following terms : 

“ I have learned from authority I cannot doubt, my 
dear child, that Lord Delmore’s affairs are in a most em- 
barrassed state. This gives me great pain, because your 
father is not likely to behave as generously as circum- 
stances may demand. I have concealed this information 
from the family, trusting that he may be induced to give 
you a portion, before he knows how much it may be re- 
quired ; for, alas ! his liberality is more likely to be dis- 
played before than after such a knowledge. You may 
be well assured how much gratification it would afford 
me to urge your interests with him ; but you know how 
little influence I possess. Accept this gift, which may 
be useful,” (putting a little note-case into her daughter’s 
hand,) “ and recollect, that though my means are not 
equal to my wishes of assisting you, I have always the 
power, as far as a few hundreds may be of use.” 

The stubborn heart of Lady Delmore was moved by 
the affectionate consideration and soothing manner of her 
mother ; and when she embraced her, a tear — the first 
one of filial affection she had ever shed — was transferred 
to the cheek of her mother, who hailed it as a symptom 
of natural feeling, that promised future good. 

“ Have you heard of the approaching marriages of 


130 


your cousins,” asked Mrs. Vernon, “ to the Marquis of 
Tadcaster and Lord Durnford ? All is arranged. Your 
aunt Vernon is more bustling and important than ever, 
and seems highly elated at the prospect of her daughter’s 
being a Marchioness : but your cousin is the same sweet, 
frank, unaffected creature as ever. My sister, though 
with every reason to be satisfied with the prospects of 
her daughter, feels the approaching separation from her 
most deeply, and is only consoled by Lord Dunford’s 
promise of spending a certain portion of the year with 
them in the country.” 

Miss Vernon having entered prepared for their drive. 
Lady Delmore took leave of her mother, and affecting an 
air of protection towards her sister, they entered the car- 
riage. 

Not a syllable of approbation of the elegant equipage 
passed the lips of Miss Vernon, which increased the 
spleen of her sister, who revenged herself by saying, 
“So, mamma tells me, that Eliza' Burrell is to be mar- 
ried immediately to Lord Durnford. It’s a famous match 
for her ; for he is rich, good-looking, and of an ancient 
family. I saw from the first moment that he was despe- 
rately in love with her. Your meeting with them, Louisa, 
will be very awkward at first.” 

“Not more so than your’s with Lord Tadcaster,” 
spitefully answered Miss Vernon. 

“ Oh, c' est toute un autre ajfaire^'' said Lady Del- 
more; “for as I am married, and married first, there 
can be no awkwardness, at least on my side, though he 
may be suspected of being delaisse ” 

“ I can assure you,” said Miss Vernon, “it is univer- 
sally well known, that he never had the least intention 
of proposing to you, and it is as universally suspecled, 
that you eloped with Lord Delmore in anticipation of 
Tadcaster’s marriage.” 

Lady Delmore felt the blood rush to her cheeks, and 
anger rise in her breast, at this speech of her sister’s, 
which she had drawn on herself by the wish of piquing 
that sister, and was as deeply offended as if the ill-na- 
tured observation was wholly unprovoked. 

“ Those who communicated such impertinent remarks 


131 


to a sister , replied she, “ must have had a poor opinion 
of her sisterly feelings.” 

Miss Vernon, not knowing what to reply to this se* 
vere reproof, affected to be occupied in looking at the 
visiting-list in her hand. 

Determined to exhibit her coroneted carriage. Lady 
Delmore ordered her servants to drive up St, James’s 
street, and arrived opposite to the formidable battery of 
eyeglasses levelled from ‘ White’s’ and ‘ Crockford’s’ 
just as Lord Delmore was descending the steps of the 
former. She drew the check-string, and the coachman 
pulled-up nearly at the door of “ White’s.” A senti- 
ment of bienseance and convenance in the mind of her 
husband, disgusted him with the want of delicacy, of her 
thus exhibiting herself in public s5 recently after her 
marriage, the clandestine manner of which had excited 
such an esclandre; and stopping in full view of the for- 
midable bay, or rather let us call it 6e«M-window, “ the 
cynosure of curious eyes,” where pretensions and repu- 
tations are tried by the fiery ordeal of high-seasoned 
anecdotes, racy bons mots, and piquant descriptions, the 
agreeable results of the leisure hours of its aristocratic 
frequenters. He anticipated all that would be thought 
and said of the unblushing bride ; and anger at the ridi- 
cule it would subject him to, was added to the other un- 
loving feelings she excited within his breast. 

Miss Vernon being seated at the far-off* side, and Lady 
Delmore stooping forward, he did not observe the for- 
mer until he had uttered — “ What the devil. Lady Del- 
more, can make you exhibit yourself, like a Lady Ma- 
yoress, so publicly, and, above all, stop to place yourself 
under the fire of ‘ White’s’ and ‘ Crockford’s V Remem- 
ber you are still a bride.” 

At this moment Miss Vernon advanced her head and 
the tip of her finger towards Lord Delmore, who co- 
loured on perceiving that she had been a listener to his 
unlover-like address to his wife ; and the polite inquiries 
he made after her health and that of Mrs. Vernon offered 
a curious contrast to the unceremonious and sarcastic 
speech to Lady Delmore. 

While she was replying to it, two vulgar-looking men 


132 




approached, and, rudely pushing by Lord Delmore, re- 
quested the ladies to leave the carriage, as they had 
seized it under execution. 

“ What does all this mean?” gasped Lady Delmore 
to her husband, whose cheeks became nearly purpled 
with the mingled feelings of rage and shame. 

“ Leave the carriage,” said he with angry impatience, 
irritated almost to madness by the consciousness that 
many eyes were fixed on them. 

During this disgraceful exhibition. Lady Delmore de- 
scended in fear and trembling, overpowered by shame and 
mortification, as she observed the crowd of idle gazers 
assembling round them ; but Miss Vernon declared, she 
would not, could not leave the carriage, as she was un- 
prepared for walking. 

Lord Delmore could have annihilated her, for the de- 
lay this caused ; the crowd was every moment increas- 
ing; vulgar jokes were passing all around them, and yet 
she still persevered in her determination of not leaving 
the carriage. 

“ I am Miss Vernon, the daughter of Mr. Vernon— 
the rich Mr. Vernon — of Carlton Gardens ; drive me to 
my father’s door, and I will give you five pounds, and 
you may then do what you like with the carriage.” 

“ If she be Miss Vernon, how comes she in this here 
carriage?” said one of the bystanders : “ Mr. Vernon, I 
warrant, has more crowns in his purse than on his car- 
riage, and would never go for to let anything belonging 
to him be seized for debt.” 

“ Oh ! that there carriage belongs to one of them there 
Lords as never pays nobody, as everybody knows. I’m 
certain sure there’s more silver on the harness than in 
the master’s pocket.” 

This witty remark elicited peals of laughter from the 
crowd, and nearly infuriated Lord Delmore. The foot- 
men with their canes endeavoured to keep off the mob,, 
who were pressing on Lord and Lady Delmore, uttering 
a thousand low comments on her toilette, which, being 
a costume of la dernier mode de Paris, was little calcu- 
lated for any promenade but en voiture. 

“ My eyes !” cried one, “ how smart she be’s ; I 


133 


wonder what she calls them there gimcracks !” — “ What 
nice shoes for the mud !” said another. — “ And that 
there chap of a Lord, who looks so proud and vexed ; 
but he was not too proud to run in debt, and try to cheat 
his creditors, for all he’s so proud, and so vexed, now 
that they take his gingerbread coach, with all his crowns 
on it, from him, and make his fine lady use her legs.” 

“ Will you, or will you not, leave the carriage, Miss , 
Vernon?” almost screamed Lord Delmore. 

“No, certainly not,” replied the young lady, “it 
would be too shocking to walk in St. James’s street, and 
papa would never forgive it.” 

Lord Delmore seized the arm of his trembling wife, 
and hurried her away from ''the spot, followed by a few 
of the rabble, who pursued them to the door of Thomas’s 
Hotel. Lady Delmore, on entering her room, sank into 
a chair in violent hysterics, and her unfeeling husband, 
having rung for her maid, left her, muttering “ curses 
not loud, but deep,” on himself, his wife, and her whole 
family. 

The bailiffs having consulted together, agreed that 
five pounds divided between them, was not to be re- 
jected ; and having jumped up behind the carriage, dis- 
possessing the powdered and laced footmen of their 
places, they drove oft' to Carlton Gardens, followed by 
the shouts and laughter of the crowd, who passed a thou- 
sand bitter jests on the footmen, who, humiliated and 
angry, pursued the carriage on foot. 

Mr. Vernon was descending from his carriage, when 
the equipage, which had flattered his vanity two hours 
before, arrived at his door, and the motley effect of two 
ill-dressed ‘men, instead of the spruce footmen, astounded 
him. Though the coachman had driven quickly to es- 
cape from the mob, many of them now entered the aris- 
tocratical precincts of Carlton Gardens, shouting in 
triumph at having overtaken the carriage. 

Her father’s servants assisted Miss Vernon to alight, 
and the bailiffs, impressed with respect by the appear- 
ance of the house, and number of servants in the hall, 
the English-like look of Mr. Vernon — that indescribable 
look, which carries “conviction strong as proof of holy 
writ,” of wealth, — “ hoped as how Miss would not forget 

VOL. II. 12 


134 


them there five pounds she had promised them. They 
were very sorry that they were obliged to stop the car- 
riage; but that same Lord Delmore was a very slippery 
chap, and they had been a’ ter his carriage and cab a long 
time. For the matter of that, there were fifty executions 
out against his property ; so Miss might see, that if they 
had not nabbed his coach, somebody else would ; and so 
Miss might see as how the law must .take its course.” 

Miss Vernon passed up the steps through the crowd, 
and the hall-door being closed, the baililfs departed with 
the carriage, and Mr. Vernon demanded of his daughter 
the solution of the mystery, how she came to be alone 
in the carriage, and where her sister was? With as little 
feeling of delicacy, as of pity for that sister, the young 
lady explained the whole transaction, and each word 
produced increased anger on the part of the proud and 
selfish father. 

“And all this happened in front of White’s?” said he; 
“ and you refused to leave the carriage, by which you 
prolonged • the expose, and directed the attention of a 
vulgar mob to my house, so that my name will be mixed 
up in this disgraceful business ! Whereas, had you left 
the carriage, and accompanied your sister on foot, my 
name would never have been brought forM'^ard. You 
have shown as little feeling as common sense in this 
business, and have proved that you are totally incapable 
of acting for yourself without compromising your family.” 

So saying, the angry father left the room, and sought 
his wife, to give her the painful intelligence, which ex- 
ceeded even her worst fears of the state of Lord Delmore’s 
affairs. 

“ Here is a pretty affair, Mrs.Vernon,” said he; “ one 
of your daughters has married a ruined, beggarly Lord — 
is turned with ignominy from his carriage, in the most 
public street in London ; and the other is such an idiot, 
that instead of going with her sister, she persists in re- 
maining in the carriage, and returns to my door, followed 
by a mob, and escorted by bailiffs. This all comes of 
your false indulgence to them, which I always guessed 
would produce the worst consequences.” 

Mrs. Vernon listened to him in silence, for she w’^as 
well aware how useless any observation of her’s would 


135 


be, and she hoped, that if he exhausted his anger on her, 
he would return to kinder feelings towards his unfortu- 
nate daughter, Lady Delmore. At length she ventured 
to insinuate the necessity of taking some step to assist 
to extricate Lord Delmore from his difficulties, but was 
stopped by the increased anger of her husband. 

“ What!” said he, “ are you so weak and absurd as 
to believe that I will advance a guinea to a spendthrift, 
who has swindled my foolish daughter into a marriage? 
No ! let them starve if they will ; I have done with them 
both. Never name the subject to me again:” and so 
saying, he withdrew. 

Mrs .Vernon sent for Louisa to inquire the particulars ; 
and she related them without sparing a single painful 
circumstance, from the unfeeling address of Lord Del- 
more to her sister, up to the moment that he, as she said, 
pulled her out of the carriage ; and the malignant emphasis 
with which she related the whole, shocked the feelings 
of her mother. Mrs. Vernon ordered the carriage, ffiat 
she might go and comfort her daughter; and, ere she had 
time to ask Louisa to accompany her, that young lady 
excused herself, on the plea of having some music to 
practise — an excuse that was revolting to the affectionate 
heart of Mrs. Vernon. 

On arriving at Thomas’s Hotel, she found Lady Del- 
more, with pale cheeks and swollen eyes, extended on 
the sofa. Her tears flowed afresh when her mother 
embraced her, and she wept on her bosom with uncon- 
trollable anguish, while the pitying mother used every 
endeavour to console her. Having succeeded in restor- 
ing her to something like calm, Mrs. Vernon inquired for 
Lord Delmore, and was shocked at discovering that he 
had left her daughter while she was in hysterics, and had 
not since returned to the room. This unfeeling conduct 
disgusted her, and she rang the bell to request he might 
be searched for in his room, when the waiter, with a 
look of astonishment, declared, that Lord Delmore had 
set out for Dover twenty minutes before, leaving a letter, 
which was now produced, for Lady Delmore, but which, 
hearing that her ladyship was ill, he had not delivered. 

The waiter having witlidrawn, Mrs. Vernon tried to 
compose her daughter’s agitated feelings, who, breaking 


136 


open the seal, read the few lines the letter contained, 
when it fell from her trembling hand, and, turning deadly- 
pale, she pointed to it, saying, “ Read that, mother, for 
you can pity me, little as I deserve it.” 

The heartless writer avowed, that he was about to 
desert for ever a wife whom he had only wedded for the 
sake of the portion he supposed her to have. He told 
her she must blame her low-born parvenu father for the 
separation, as, had he given them a suitable provision, 
he (Lord Delmore) would not have left England. He 
added, that on handing her from the carriage, a note-case 
had dropped from her hand, of which he had possessed 
himself, and, discovering that it contained bank-notes to 
the amount of five hundred pounds, he had appropriated 
them to his use, being the only price he was ever likely 
to receive for the coronet with which he Had encircled 
her brows. “After the exhibition of the morning,” he 
Continued, “ it would be impossible for him to appear in 
London ; and he concluded she would of course return to 
her father, who must console her and himself with the 
ancient name engrafted on the parent stock, and support 
her, as it was impossible for him to make her any allow- 
ance.” 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

“ The gods in bounty work up storms about us, 

I'hat give mankind occasion to exert 
Their hidden strength, and throw out into practice 
Virtues that shun the day, and lie conceal’d 
In the smooth seasons and the calms of life.”^ 

“ I will bear it 

With all the tender suff’rance of a friend, 

As calmly as the wounded patient bears 
The artist’s hand that ministers his cure.” 

Mrs. Vernon felt her tenderness for her unfortunate 
daughter redoubled by the pity with which she now re- 
garded her ; and Lady Delmore, for the first time, became 
sensible of her past selfishness and folly, and grateful for 
the sympathy and affection of her mother. The unfeel- 


137 


ing conduct and despicable meanness of her husband filled 
her with shame and contempt, and she avowed that she 
merited all that had befallen her for having eloped with 
him. 

Mrs. Vernon, though fearful of the reception Lady 
Delmore might meet with from her father, still thought 
it absolutely necessary that, deserted as she was by her 
husband, she should return to the paternal roof, and 
having given orders to the femme-de-chambre to remove 
her mistress’s things from the hotel to Carlton Gardens, 
she took her daughter home with her in the carriage. 

“ If your father does not behave as kindly as we could 
wish,” said the good mother, “ my excellent sister will 
receive you as if you were her o\^n child ; and I can 
supply you with all the pecuniary assistance you require 
until your father relents, and makes, as I am sure he 
eventually will, a suitable provision for you. So pray be 
comforted, my dear child, and bear this trial with pa- 
tience.” 

The reception of Lady Delmore by'her father was, as 
Mrs. Vernon had predicted, harsh and unkind, and her 
sister showed nearly as little good feeling. Mr. Vernon’s 
ambition and avarice had deadened all natural affection 
in his breast; he looked on his children as so many 
available means of extending his grandeur by their in- 
termarrying with noble and rich partners ; but the mo- 
ment this expectation was frustrated, his dislike became 
much more marked than his affection had ever been for 
the child that had so disappointed him. 

The kindness and sympathy of her mother was Lady 
Delmore’s only source of consolation under all the mor- 
tification to which she was continually subjected ; but 
that kindness had operated a total change in her charac- 
ter. She learned to reflect on her own errors, and to 
deplore them, to conquer -the egotism that had hitherto 
governed her ; and almost disarmed the malignity of her 
sister by the patience with which she now supported its 
symptoms, instead of, as in former days, resenting, or 
provoking fresh attacks. 

Happy are they whom misfortune awakens to a sense 
of their errors ! Even the best must own that patience 


y 


138 


and resignation are the pillars of human peace on earth ; 
for — 

How poor are they that have not patience ! 

• What wound did ever heal but by degrees ?” 

Patience is thrice blessed, giving and receiving good ; it 
disarms anger, or enables us to support its stings and 
arrows, and we feel after each trial, through which it has 
supported us, an internal satisfaction that carries balm to 
the heart. 

Mrs. Vernon rejoiced in the change in her daughter’s 
character, but deplored the unfortunate marriage that led 
to it; yet, can anything be deemed unfortunate that leads 
to such results ? — and Lady Delmore often told her mo- 
ther, that perhaps without the rude trial that opened her 
eyes to her own defects, she might have continued as 
selfish and frivolous as before. When Mr. Vernon and 
her sister pointed out to her the satirical notices in the 
newspapers of the arrest of the carriage in St. James’s 
street, and the flight of Lord Delmore for the Continent, 
commenting on them with severity, and blaming her as 
the cause of all, she meekly acknowledged that she was, 
and added with humility that she should never cease to 
remember her error with sorrow. Even the obtuse father 
refrained from reproaching her, and by degrees began to 
treat her with something as like kindness as his harsh 
nature was capable of ; and her sister forebore taunting 
her when she found her taunts unanswered. 

It was not without violent and unceasing eflbrts over 
her naturally irritable temper that Lady Delmore had 
achieved this conquest of it. Religion was called in to 
her aid ; and when was religion ever invoked in vain, if 
sought with humility of heart ? 

“ True religion' 

Is always mild, propitious and humble ; 

Plays not the tyrant, plants no faith in blood, 

Nor bears destruction on her chariot-wheels. 

But stoops to polish, succour, and redress.” 

Lady Delmore made it the guide of her actions and the 
regulator of her thoughts ; it led her to judge others with 
indulgence, and herself only with severity. 


139 


Mrs. Vernon now found that she had recovered a 
daughter when she had least expected such a blessing, 
and by means the least likely, according to human ex- 
perience, to accomplish such a change — the marriage of 
that daughter with a dissolute man of fashion. The ways 
of Providence are inscrutable, and out of evil is good 
often produced. 

The day that Mrs. Henry Vernon came to invite her 
brother-in-law’s family to be present at the nuptials of 
her daughter, an invitation which she determined on 
giving in person, that she might enjoy the malicious 
pleasure of seeing their mortification, was indeed a trying 
day to Mr. and Miss Vernon, who were as jealous, and 
envious in heart, as even Mrs. Henry Vernon could de- 
sire. She apologized for not having come more fre- 
quently to see them lately, particularly knowing the 
annoyance they must all have had in the very unfortunate 
marriage of their elder daughter — hoped Louisa would 
be more fortunate. Apropos to Louisa : the jewels or- 
dered for their cousin, Miss Burrell, were only inferior 
in splendour to those presented to her daughter, by the 
Marquis of Tadcaster. 

Louisa became pale with rage at this mal-apropos 
drawing in of the marriage of Miss Burrell, as apropos 
to her. She felt all the malice of it, and her aunt re- 
joiced that she did so. “ I have been so occupied,” said 
the spiteful Mrs. Henry Vernon, “ in receiving and re- 
turning the visits of all the Marquis’s family, that I have 
not had a moment to myself. To be sure, they are de- 
lightful people, though perhaps I am partial in my judg- 
ment of them, as they are so kind and attentive to me, 
that I should be ungrateful if I did not highly esteem 
them. The Duchess of Montresser is to present my 
daughter, the future Marchioness of Tadcaster, at Court, 
and it is expected that her diamonds will be the finest of 
the season.” The 'parvenu lady, talking of diamonds 
as she would of green peas ! “ The family jewels of the 
Marquis are esteemed among the finest in England, and 
he has made considerable additions to them lately. My 
daughter wished to prevent his doing so, but he was ob- 
stinate ; and a young man of sixty thousand a year, and 
in love for the first time, may be allowed to be a little 


140 


extravagant on such an occasion. Certainly my daughter 
has reason to be flattered by his preference, when one 
thinks of all the young ladies that were trying to attract 
him,” (fixing her eyes on Lady Delmore’s face, who 
felt herself blush, not with anger, but sliame, as she re- 
membered her eflbrts to entrap him.) “ But,” continued 
the loquacious lady, “ he declares he never felt the 
slightest preference before ; indeed, the Duchess of 
Montressor tells me the same. Mr. Henry Vernon 
wished to make a splendid present to our daughter, a 
present worthy a Marchioness, and probably a future 
Duchess ; but as among the Marquis’s family jewels, 
there are suits of rubies, emeralds, sapphires, pearls, 
Onyxes, opals, and turquoises, we harflly knew what to 
do ; so I luckily thought of having a Marchioness’s coro- 
net in diamonds, which we have ordered, and a river of 
diamonds for her neck. Part of the trousseau is coming 
from Paris, and the rest is from Howell and James’s, in 
Regent Street. The pocket-handkerchiefs cost ten guineas 
each ; the coronets are embroidered in dead gold, and 
have a beautiful effect ; indeed, I like a Marquis’s coronet 
so much, that I shall be almost sorry when my daughter 
changes it for a ducal, though ‘ Your Grace’ does sound 
very well.” 

Mrs. Henry Vernon scarcely allowed time for a word 
from any of the family, and was elated at observing the 
depression of their looks ; “ Would you believe it,” said 
she, turning to her sister-in-law, “ Mr. Henry Vernon, 
instead of rejoicing in our daughter’s making such a 
splendid marriage, is quite in low spirits at the idea of 
her leaving us. I tell him that this is much too absurd, 
for surely no one wishes to have his daughters left sea- 
son after season on his hands,” (giving a spiteful look 
around her.) “ But what is more extraordinary is, that 
my daughter, though very much attached to the Mar- 
quis, bursts into tears every time that her separation 
from us is referred to : this comes from the folly of Mr. 
Henry Vernon, who has always accustomed himself and 
her to be in a great degree dependent on each other for 
happiness, just as if they could be always together, and 
now they can’t bear parting.” 

Having exhausted all the bavardage^ with which she 


141 


came freighted, she prepared to depart, and once more 
inviting them to the nuptials, she added, “ But if it 
would be too painful to Lady Delmore’s feelings to wit- 
ness a marriage, so soon after her own unfortunate one, 
I will not press her to come ; though, to be sure, a mar- 
riage by special license, the ceremony performed by an 
archbishop, and in a splendid drawing-room, could not 
be like a Gretna Green wedding.” And so saying, she 
hurried away, declaring she had a thousand things to do, 
but paused at the door of the boudoir, to tell Miss Ver- 
non that she need not be, afraid of meeting Lord Durn- 
ford at the marriage, as, out of delicacy to her feelings, 
they had not asked him ; and like a Parthian she fled, 
throwing her arrow behind. 

The rage of Mr. and Miss Vernon broke forth the 
moment that she who had excited it was out of hearing, 
and there was no term of reproach that they did not be- 
stow on her. They forgot all the provocations they had 
given the narrow-minded and spiteful woman ; but Mrs. 
Vernon and Lady Delmore, who remembered them, were 
less surprised, though equally pained by her obtuse in- 
delicacy. -Mr. Vernon declared his decided resolution 
of not attending the marriage himself, or allowing any 
of his family to go : a resolution which he adhered to, 
and which gave his unamiable sister-in-law the opportu- 
nity of telling her confidential friends, that the jealousy 
and envy of the Carlton Garden family were so great, 
that they could not support being present at the cere- 
mony. The satisfaction of propagating this belief, amply 
consoled her for their absence froni the nuptials. 


CHAPTER XXV. 

“ Dublin, I love thee, though with spires ill crown’d. 

But hate thy joy-bells’ melancholy sound. 

And loathe the ill-dressed, idle, brazen crew, 

That prowling through thy unswept streets I view. 

Ripe for rebellion, spurning order — law ; 

The maddest, wittiest wights the world e’er saw.” 

From Howth to Dublin the route excited the admira- 
tion of Lord and Lady Oriel. Fine points of view pre- 


142 


sented themselves at every fresh turn ; and the sea 
spreading out as a vast mirror to reflect the beautiful 
coast, added to the charms of the scene, which was sadly 
contrasted by the uncountable shoals of beggars that as- 
sailed the carriages at every side, clamorous and perse- 
vering beyond all that they had yet experienced. They 
were struck with the beauty of the streets; but were not 
pleased with the pedestrians that filled them, a race new 
to English eyes, appertaining neither to the upper nor 
lower class, and affecting a swagger and air of idle im- 
pudence, that denoted they belonged not to the middling 
class, which is in general the most truly respectable in 
all nations. 

“What are those people?” asked Lord Oriel of Mr. 
Desmond. “Are they professional men? — though no ; 
their appearance indicates that they are not.” 

“ A dozen duels would be the inevitable consequence 
of your question,” replied Mr. Desmond, “ if any of the 
worthy individuals who have excited it, heard you. They 
call themselves Irish gentlemen, have a noble contempt 
for business, and for the drudgery it entails, and occupy 
their leisure-hours in attending political meetings, each 
individual being persuaded that, under the auspices of the 
Agitator, he may aspire to representing some county in 
Ireland in a British Parliament ; ‘ as sure his cousin 
Jack, or his friend Bill, has got into the House of Com- 
mons, and why should not he V Those who formerly 
bounded their ambition to some of the liberal professions, 
the church, the law, physic, or commerce, now despise 
such avocations ; and to be an M. P. seems to them a 
distinction too easily attained, not to be sought ; this has 
therefore become the end and aim of all their pursuits. 
They look on the Agitator as the Corypheus who is to 
lead them to glory, and are too short-sighted to see that 
he is destroying the country he affects to protect. Poor 
Ireland is indeed fallen ; and the specimens she sends 
over to England to sow the seeds of dissension in the 
Parliament, and to reap the harvest in the fields, prove 
alike her degradation. When I last visited the House of 
Commons,” continued Mr. Desmond, “ I could not name 
half-a-dozen of the new Irish members. I looked in 
vain for influential men of property or station, men whose 


143 


grandfathers or fathers ivere known to me, or whose 
names at least were familiar to my ear ; but I could see 
only O’ Blarney and his proteges, ready to vociferate 
against England, and endeavouring to arouse the turbu- 
lent to assist them by appeals to their passions.” 

The party found apartments ready for them at Mo- 
rison’s Hotel, and were gratified by the cleanliness and 
comfort of the house, and the attention of the master and 
his assistants. Having left their names at the Castle, an 
invitation to dinner was sent them for the next day, and 
a select party of the elite of the Dublin fashionables were 
assembled to meet them. 

The Marquis of Mona, undismayed by all the misre- 
presentations so industriously circulated to decrease his 
popularity in Ireland, continued to discharge his duty 
there with a courage and calmness as remarkable as that ^ 
he evinced when, after the memorable and glorious bat- 
tle of Waterloo, he submitted to the operation of ampu- 
tation without wincing, showing that he was no less 
distinguished for mental than for bodily courage. Lord 
Oriel “observed to Mr. Desmond, that with all his pre- 
con der^ild opinion of the high courage and generosity of 
the Irish ”*character, he thought it would have been im- 
possible for the Government to have chosen a noble- 
man. more calculated to suit them than the Marquis of 
Mona. 

The most agreeable part of the Dublin society is that 
to which strangers, making a short stay, have the least 
chance of being admitted. It consists of the gentlemen 
of the Irish bar, who are as remarkable for their wit and 
other agreeable qualities as for their hospitality ; and 
the few families to whom Mr. and Mrs. Desmond pre- 
sented Lord and Lady Oriel, gave them a most favoura- 
ble impression of that circle. 

They found Lord and Lady Abberville constant visi- 
tors at the Castle and the Phoenix Park ; the noble lord 
intruding his opinions on the Viceroy and Secretary, 
unmindful of the little attention they received, and my 
lady trying to make herself useful to the Marchioness of 
Mona, whose dignified mind shrank from the intriguante 
with instinctive dread, and whose ears were closed to 
the innuendoes, scandalous stories, and malicious tales. 


144 


she sought to instil into them, against all whose recep- 
tion she wished to preclude. 

“ And so, after all,” said Lady Abberville to the Mar- 
chioness, “Lord and Lady Oriel are living together. 
Well, some men can bear anything, and he must be wil- 
fully blind. She really must have good nerves to pre- 
sent herself so unblushingly, after her affair with Lord 
Delmore ; and the Desmonds and Forresters, for moral 
people, are very indulgent.” 

Lady Mona changed the subject, with a coldness of 
manner that marked her disapproval ; and the wily 
Lady Abberville, who quickly saw she had done wrong 
jiX. attacking Lady Oriel, dexterously shifted her ground, 
by observing, that she had been out of England all the 
lime, and only heard of the affair through the papers, 
and from the letters of Lady Wellborough and Lady 
Nottingham, who, she must say, were a little disposed 
to be spiteful on such occasions. For her part, she had 
always liked Lady Oriel, and thought her a very charm- 
ing person, and therefore she should pay her all the at- 
tention in her power, especially as her dear Lady Mona 
was a friend of hers. 

^he Desmonds and Colonel Forrester were astonished 
^ see the courage with which Lady Abberville advanced 
and seized Lady Oriel’s hand, and proclaimed her de- 
light at seeing her in Ireland ; trusted'she would spend 
some time with Lord Abberville and herself at their seat ; 
for though Lady Oriel would find no place in Ireland 
like Oriel Park, still if she could be content with more 
homely accommodation, they would make up in the 
heartiness of their welcome, for what they wanted in 
splendour. She said, she had felt delighted at the mar- 
riage of Colonel Forrester to their charming neighbour ; 
it was so gratifying to have an English person settled at 
Springmount ; one who would certainly do much good ; 
for poor Mr. Desmond, though the best man in the 
world, was a little obsolete in his notions, and could not 
enter into the true character of the Irish people. She 
had made the Lord Lieutenant au fait of the real state of 
the country, and he had profited very much by her sug- 
gestion ; but still he seemed strangely opposed to the 
building a barrack in their neighbourhood, the only plan 


145 


that could tranquillize the country, and which she trusted 
Colonel Forrester would aid in getting carried into ef- 
fect. 

Lady Oriel was only relieved by the arrival of the gen- 
tlemen from the dining-room, when Lady Abberville left 
her to go and assail the Marquis of Mona, whose good 
breeding was put to the test by the tiresome and perse- 
vering efforts of the manoeuvring lady, to carry her point 
of the barrack. There was not a country gentleman 
present of whom Lady Abberville had not a request to 
make. Presentments to be passed, canals to be made, 
barracks to be built, and markets to be removed to some 
village of her Lord’s, to force said village into a town — 
these were the subjects of her conversation to each ; and 
they seemed to dread her approach as something that 
would draw them into present ennui and future trouble. 
Her legs seemed to be as active as her tongue, for she 
was to be seen as well as heard in every corner of the 
room ; and it was not until the carriages were announced, 
that she ceased to entreat, suggest, or cajole, whichever 
best suited the person addressed, on every point on 
which she required assistance. 

Lady Oriel, who had only seen her in England as the 
creature of the patronesses of the exclusive clique, was 
surprised to view her in her new character: but the 
motive of her actions in both were the same— self- 
interest. 

“If all the Irish ladies were like Lady Abberville,” 
said Lady Oriel to Mrs. Desmond, “how I should 
dread them ! There is no retreating from her, and it is 
equally disagreeable to be treated by her as a friend or 
enemy.” 

“ She is an odious person, I must admit,” replied Mrs. 
Desmond, — “ une vraie intriguante, deterred by no feel- 
ings of delicacy, and guided by no principle, save self-in- 
terest, in the pursuit of her egotistical plans. I consider 
her vicinity to Springmount its greatest drawback ; but 
luckily, she only comes to Ireland when driven by ne- 
cessity. Then while she is here, no post arrives that 
does not waft her over all the tittle-tattle of the clique 
she has left behind, and the harmless and silly niaiseries 
of her friends. Lady Wellborough and Lady Notting- 

VOL, II. 13 


146 


ham are quoted to us, seasoned by the malice of the 
quoter, until they assume a meaning much more palpa- 
ble than the ladies with whom they originated ever in- 
tended they should bear ; for nothing passes through the 
mind or lips of Lady Abberville, without being tainted 
by the mechancete of her nature. She does so much 
mischief, that I cannot speak of her with the forbearance 
I wish to use ; and she is the only person in female 
form that Mr. Desmond has an antipathy to.” 

The party were invited to Marino, the beautiful resi- 
dence of Lord and Lady Castlemont, the former the 
worthy successor of his noble and excellent father, and 
the latter as peerless in reputation as in beauty, offering 
a bright model of perfection in female virtue and loveli- 
ness. They passed a most agreeable day at Marino, 
and allowed that all they had heard of the charms of 
Irish hospitality exceeded not the reality. 

Their next visit was to Kilruddery, the fine seat of 
Lord Leath, beautifully situated near Bray, where the 
beauty of the park, the solid elegance and comfort of the 
house, and the amiability of the owners, called forth 
their warmest approbation, and realized all they had 
imagined of the bon-hommie and ease of manner of the 
Irish nobility, who unite all the advantages to be derived 
from other countries to the cheerfulness and warmth of 
heart peculiar to their own. 

An invitation from the Duke and Duchess of Cartoun, 
to visit Cartoun, was too tempting to be resisted ; and 
they were delighted with the frank and cordial reception 
that welcomed them from the excellent and patriotic 
Duke and his truly amiable Duchess. 

“ What a delightful place Ireland would be to reside 
in,” said Lord Oriel, “ if the country was only tranquil ! 
And surely, the presence of all the Irish nobility, if they 
resemble the three families we have visited, could not fail 
to have the happiest effect on the habits and minds of 
the people. I must say, that I blame the absentees for 
much of the mischief that has occurred ; though you, 
v/ho have had more power of judging, look as if you 
difiered from me.” 

“ I,” replied Mr. Desmond, “ look on absenteeism as 
a consequence, and not as a cause, of the troubles that 


147 


have been so long and so loudly attributed to it. I know 
districts where the landed proprietors have constantly 
resided on their estates, doing all the good in their power ; 
and yet no sooner did the Agitator wave his sceptre, and 
his satellites work on the minds of the ignorant peasantry, 
than they shook off their allegiance to their old and tried 
friends, forgetful of years of benefits received, and un- 
mindful of all, save the excitation of the moment. One 
of the noblemen we have visited, who has been a con- 
stant resident on his estate, and who might serve as a 
model for landlords and neighbours, has had the mortifi- 
cation of seeing his son (a most amiable and enlightened 
young man) defeated in an election for a place he had 
represented honourably and conscientiously, and where 
his constituents could have no doubt of the zeal and ho- 
nesty with which he would advocate their interest. 
There must be a reciprocity of benefits between landlord 
and tenant, to make the tie that unites them advantageous 
and lasting ; and if a landlord knows that, notwithstand- 
ing years of kindness and forbearance on his part, and 
apparent content on that of his tenants, any popular ex- 
citement may turn them against him, he has but little 
encouragement to remain in a land where a sense of duty 
is the only incitement. Nothing can tend so much to 
injure a country as the dissemination of dissensions be- 
tween landlord and tenant, artfully leading both parties 
to suppose that their interests are separate ; yet those 
who profess to be the friends of Ireland have invariably 
pursued this system, and its baneful effects are but too 
visible. You, my dear Lord Oriel, like all who judge 
of Ireland without a personal knowledge of it, are dis- 
posed to think harshly of absentees ; but few reflect on 
the misery of residing in a country where laws are 
trampled on, and murder and rapine stalk abroad in open 
day. An outcry is raised at every attempt that is made 
to coerce the lawless and turbulent, and to check them 
in their fearful career of crime. We hear that the liberty 
of the subject is violated — that a death-blow is aimed at 
the British Constitution ; but those who make this outcry 
forget, or at least, mention not, that not only the liber- 
ties, but the lives, of the respectable and peaceful sub- 
jects in Ireland are attacked every day, and that, to 


148 


preserve the liberty of the lawless — to leave them the 
power of slaying, flogging, and burning, the respectable 
part are enslaved, and tremble under the reign of terror 
established by the infuriated people, who, goaded on to 
madness by the inflammatory speeches and letters ad- 
dressed to their passions, commit the most fearful crimes. 
For myself,” continued Mr. Desmond, “ though ab- 
horring the crimes of these infatuated people, I cannot 
abhor themselves — ‘ I love the offenders, but detest the 
offence and all my anger is against those who excite 
them to such deeds. Patriotism, love of liberty, devo- 
tion to country — sacred words, that ought never to be 
profaned, are the watchwords, the war-cry, to lead this 
unhappy people to murder, pillage, and destruction ; and 
those who are compelled to vote for a political measure, 
which the exigence of the times demand, an exigence 
brought on by evil counsels, are denounced, by those 
who have reduced Ireland to this fearful crisis, as her 
worst enemies and enslavers, and pointed out to the ven- 
geance of the misled populace. No country can be a fit 
residence for independent and honourable men, where 
the worst of all tyranny is established — that of brutal 
force, and where those who most love and worship 
liberty are forced to support measures that seem to assail 
it, in order to arrest the crimes committed in her name. 
The Bill about to be passed in Parliament, furnishes 
ample subject for the attacks and reproaches of the fac- 
tion who have rendered it necessary ; but if it did not 
pass, what would be the fate of the respectable and well 
disposed class of the people in Ireland ? The question 
is, are the well-conducted and orderly to be left to the 
tender mercies of the infuriated miscreants who have 
taken the law into their own hands, or are measures, 
strong and illegal as they may be considered, to be taken 
to protect the good, and check the bad ? Look at the 
run made on the banks for gold ; you see how soon the 
hint given on this subject was taken, and the unthinking 
people reflect not on the inevitable. consequences which 
must draw an accumulation of distress and misery on 
their heads by depressing the markets, and deteriorating 
the value of the produce they have to sell. Every reac- 
tion following events of this kind is fraught with misery. 


149 


and the senseless people, instead of opening their eyes 
to the cause, look only at the effect, and blame govern- 
ment for the inevitable consequences of their own folly. 
The Irish have been accustomed to look up to the Eng- 
lish as lovers of liberty and protectors of the oppressed ; 
this opinion, and the respect it produced, it has been the 
study of the faction, who have convulsed Ireland for the 
last few years, to destroy, and the reason is obvious. If 
the sober-minded and influential class in England have 
opposed themselves to this faction, as it was clear from 
the beginning they would, it became necessary to depre- 
ciate them, and extirpate all sympathy between them and 
the Irish, to prevent the latter seeing the real state of 
public opinion in England, with respect to their self-con- 
stituted rulers. To explain to the ignorant multitude 
why the English rose not en masse to support the Irish 
demagogues, it was necessary to misrepresent the nation, 
and have it imagined that, as they would not countenance 
murder, rapine, and all the excesses of license, they no 
longer worshipped liberty.” 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

“ Erin, thy verdant sea-girt shore 
Was never meant for slaves to tread, 

Though dimmed are now the days of yore 
When monarchs for thee fought and bled. 

When knowledge openM her fair page. 

And glory wide her flag unfurPd, 

Thou wert the boast of a past age. 

The bright gem of the western world. 

But faded is thy glory now. 

Nought but thy courage rests with thee ; 

A reckless courage that, I trow. 

Has led thee on to misery!” 

While visiting the beautiful environs of Dublin, Lord 
and Lady Oriel remarked to each other, that it was strange 
so fine a city and so beautiful a country drew so few tra- 
vellers to visit them. 

“ We English are strange people,” said Lord Oriel. 
“We should think it a reproach not to have seen every 
13 * 


150 


city ill France and Italy, and not to have made ourselves t 
familiar with the fine scenery of other countries. But 
how few of us are acquainted with Ireland ! and had we 
not been tempted by the desire of visiting our friends, 
we most probably never should have seen the romantic ^ 
and fine country now before us, which, we must admit, 
is more worthy of admiration than many of those places 
which the wealthy and the idle travel thousands of miles 
to admire. I think this indifference to the beauties of 
Ireland, on the part of England, has done much to keep 
us in ignorance of the real state of the country, and con- 
sequently to prevent our having reflected on the best 
means of ameliorating the grievances under which she 
has long groaned.” 

“ I agree with you,” said Mr. Desmond, for I have 
often deplored the ignorance of the members in both 
houses of Parliament on the subject of Ireland, — an igno- 
rance which makes them listen with disbelief to many 
statements founded on fact, and with credulity to too 
many founded on falsehood. That Ireland has long suf- 
fered from misrule, one must be sceptical to deny ; that 
she has many grievances to complain of, it would be 
more than folly to refuse to believe : but, instead of 
searching to discover the original malady, and to remove 
it, anodynes and palliatives have been applied, which 
have only yielded a temporary relief, and the disease has 
burst forth with renewed force from the slumber it had 
taken. Opium can still and blunt the sense of pain ; but 
it removes not the cause, and the remedies applied to 
Ireland have been opiates from which she has awakened 
with increased excitability, the sense of suffering ren- 
dered more acute by the re-action arising from the tem- 
porary relief. It is not want of good-will, but want of 
knowledge, of which the persons who have treated the 
maladies of Ireland, are to be accused. They have not 
studied the idiosyncrasy of the country, which demands 
a knowledge and reflection that few of those who are ca- 
pable, are disposed to give it. That Ireland has for cen- 
turies been misgoverned, no better proof can be given 
than the facility with which she yields to every ignorant 
and designing charlatan who wishes to try experiments 
on her: like the wretched invalid who is, ready to sub- 


151 


mit to the remedies of every quack who prescribes for 
him. A sound constitution and healthy state would pre- 
clude such dangerous experiments ; and, instead of 
blaming the political charlatans who have practised on 
Ireland and fatted on her diseases, we should blame the 
supine negligence that has allowed the disease to make 
a progress so appalling, as to throw the country into such 
hands. Had Ireland been properly governed, there 
would be no agitators, for without grievances they could 
not exist ; but hitherto the original malady has been over- 
looked while finding remedies for the dangerous symp- 
toms ; and even now, the bill that arrests the progress of 
murder, does nothing towards removing the irritation 
that gave the agitators the power of increasing the crime. 
Such conduct is like that of allowing a brain-fever to pur- 
sue its ravages on a patient, while we are content with 
confining him in a straight-waistcoat ; we may prevent 
the effects of his own madness from bringing destruc- 
tion on others, but we do not prevent the disease from 
destroying himself. The bill must therefore, be followed 
by measures of wisdom and justice, and they can only 
be administered by a knowledge of the causes of the 
original evil. Ireland has had some of the most able and 
willing statesmen that England could boast, as her se- 
cretaries, who, had they arrived in Ireland with only half 
the knowledge and experience relative to it with which 
they left it, might have done much to relieve the burthen 
under which she has writhed so long ; but certain pecu- 
liarities, the result of her grievances, render it more diffi- 
cult to acquire a correct knowledge of the true state of 
the country than can be imagined by those who are ac- 
customed to plain and open dealing. Misrepresentations, 
taking the hue of every political faction, come pouring 
in on the Secretary on his arrival ; his ears, habituated 
to the matter-of-fact details of business of the veracity- 
loving English, are ill calculated to sift the grains of 
truth from the vast chaff of falsehood in which they are 
confounded; and finding himself continually deceived, 
his credulity becomes metamorphosed into its opposite 
extreme, and he who believed too much, learns to doubt 
too largely. Disgusted with the prevarications and cun- 
ning he meets— which, by the by, are the invariable 


152 


consequences of ill-treatment on weak and ignorant 
minds, — he learns but too often to despise those whom 
he had come to pity and to serve, and to consider their 
defects as the muse instead of the effect of their troubles.” 

After a stay of ten days in Dublin, the party proceeded 
on their route to Springmount, and were much gratified 
by the beauty of the country through which they passed : 
hill and dale, and those beautiful mountains, clear streams, 
and rapid rivers, peculiar to Ireland, continually called 
forth their admiration. The excellence of the provisions 
at the inns at which they stopped, surprised them ; and 
Lady Oriel declared that the butter was more delicate 
and finely flavoured than any she had ever before eaten ; 
it looked and tasted as if the cows had fed only on but- 
tercups and primroses. The slim-cake, and hot griddle- 
bread, luxuries to be had only in Ireland, met with great 
success ; and the newly laid eggs were pronounced to 
be so good, as to verify the Irishman’s boast, that “ sure 
it was only Irish hens that ever laid fresh eggs.” The 
crimped salmon, with its white curdy veil, letting its 
rose-colour appear through, was allowed to be far supe- 
rior to any English salmon they had ever tasted ; and 
speckled trout, fresh from the water, was pronounced 
matchless. 

The air of cordial welcome with which the Desmond 
family were received at all the inns, might have led a 
satirical observer to recollect the lines ending with, 
“ The warmest welcome always at an inn ;” but the pre- 
sent party attributed it, as in truth they ought, to the 
respect and regard entertained for them, and the “ Och! 
sure, ’tis we that are proud and contint, to see your ho- 
nours back again in the poor ould counthry,” had a 
warmth that carried conviction of its sincerity. 

On passing over a common, Lady Oriel was surprised 
and shocked at seeing a flock of nondescript birds, re- 
sembling geese, but without feathers, trembling beneath 
the chill breeze that was wafted from the mountains. 
Being in a light open carriage, she called out to the pos- 
tilion, “ Pray, what are those birds ?” 

“ Sure, plaise your honour’s ladyship, they are geese, 
and they play h — 11 with ’em in this counthry, seeing 
as how they sell the clothes off their backs.” 


There was no resisting this answer, and Lord and 
Lady Oriel laughed heartily at it, though the postilion 
added with a grave face, “ Faith, it’s no laughing matter 
for the poor geese any way — a truth they were by no 
means disposed to doubt. 

Arrived at Capoquin, the beauty of the scenery induced 
them to remain a day or two there, that they might ex- 
plore it ; they had a boat to convey them over the limpid 
and rapid Black-water river, a misnomer, as the water is 
peculiarly clear, but which is said to have been so called 
from its banks having been once so thickly wooded that 
the dark trees threw a deep sHadow over the river, 
nearly excluding the light — hence it was called black- 
water. 

They stopped to view Drumana, the ancient and beau- 
tiful seat of the noble family of Grandison, the last of 
whose earls resided there in a style of princely hospi- 
tality, and attracted many guests by private theatricals, 
to enact which he fitted up a very tasteful theatre. Our 
present King, then a midshipman, spent some days at 
Drumana, and entered into its gaieties with all the spirit 
and vivacity peculiar to his age and profession, leaving 
behind him an impression that even still exists of the 
frankness, good humour, and condescension of Prince 
William Henry, as the old inhabitants still call his Ma- 
jesty. Various anecdotes and bon-mots are repeated re- 
lative to this memorable visit, all highly flattering to the 
illustrious visitor ; and the persons who remember him, 
declare that they are quite sure that his Majesty, even 
though he is a king, does not forget the happy days he 
spent at Drumana, as a gay and frolic-loving reefer. 

“ Och ! then, wasn’t it a grand sight,” said an old, 
woman to the party, “ to see a king’s son, born and bred 
in palaces, sent to sea just like the child of any private 
gentleman, and treated no better, and just laughing and 
playing for all the world as if he had never seen any 
greater grandeur ? Sure, we always thought that such 
great people never laughed or played themselves, but 
only kept others to do it for ’em. But, faith. Prince 
William Henry showed us the contrary, for he was the 
first in every frolic, and long as it is since that happy 
time, I think even now I see him, with his rosy cheeks 


154 


and laughing eyes, as gay as a summer’s morning, with 
something kind to say to every person who came near 
him.” 

“ Ay, and something kind to do, too,” interrupted the 
husband, “ for I well remember he snatched a kiss from 
you, Peggy, which made me jealous enough at the time, 
though now I think it’s a great honour that my poor old 
woman should have been kissed by a king.” 

“ Don’t be bragging, Davy,” said the wife, “ for sure 
the ladies can’t believe that such a poor ould woman as I 
am, ever had so great an honour.” 

“ Ay, Peggy,” said the husband, “ sure the whole 
country round knows that you were the prettiest girl in 
the barony, and what’s more, the most modest and da- 
cent; and there never was any grand company.at the 
great house, but what the good Lord and Lady used to 
send for Peggy to show ’em an Irish beauty.” 

“ Well, Davy,” said the ould woman, “ there’s no re- 
mains of that now. It’s only the heart that rests the 
same, and sure that’s for all the world like a large sound 
nut in a withered shell, where it hasn’t room.” 

“ Never mind, my ould woman,” said Davy, patting 
her on the shoulder with a look of ineffable affection ; “I 
wouldn’t give the ould shell for the freshest and greenest 
husk that ever covered a filbert in the brown woods of 
Drumana.” 

Nothing can be more picturesque or beautiful than 
Drumana. The house stands boldly on an eminence, 
commanding a view of the fine river that winds along its 
banks and almost washes its base, and the woods around 
are crowned by mountains that give sublimity to the 
whole. Mr. Desmond had ordered a dinner peculiar to 
that part of the country, to be prepared in the grounds. 
It consisted of salmon caught for the occasion, and cut 
into large slices ; a fire of wood was kindled on a stone, 
and each piece of salmon on a long wooden skewer was 
stuck in the earth round the fire, and occasionally sprin- 
kled with salt and water, and turned until roasted ; pota- 
toes dressed a V Irlandaise, and Black-water cyder, as 
sparkling as champagne, formed a repast that the English 
visitors declared to be one of the most delicious of which 
they had ever partaken ; and Peggy and her husband 


i 


155 


who superintended it, were delighted with the commen- 
dations it received. 

They returned to Capoquin to sleep in rooms breath- 
ing of lavender, it being the common custom in many 
parts of Ireland to keep quantities of this fragrant flower 
dried in their presses and drawers ; and the murmuring 
of the pellucid stream flowing under the windows of the 
inn soothed them into slumber. 

The next day they proceeded to Lismore, the whole 
route passing along the banks of the Black-water, and 
offering the most richly wooded and romantic points of 
view. 

Perhaps there is nothing in Ireland more beautiful than 
the entrance to Lismore. The fine bridge, and pictu- 
resque castle above it, which overhangs the river at a 
height that makes the head grow dizzy to look down it ; 
the woods and mountains around, and the velvet lawns 
of the grounds of Mrs. Scott, offer a picture rarely equal- 
led, and never surpassed. In this castle was born Robert 
Boyle, the celebrated philosopher, a circumstance that 
adds much to the interest with which it is viewed, and 
excites speculative surmises as to how far the sublime 
and beautiful scenery around might have influenced the 
turn of his mind, even at the early age at which he left 
Lismore, to pursue his studies at Eton. 

The union of such powerful genius and talent, such 
strong religious principles, simple habits, and affectionate 
disposition, had always endeared the memory of this ce- 
lebrated man to the persons who were now viewing the 
place where he first saw the light, and there was almost 
a religious reverence in the feelings with which they ex- 
amined the venerable ruin. The present owner of Lis- 
more, the Duke of Devonshire, is deservedly popular 
there ; he has expended large sums in improvement, and 
resided some months on the spot, where his kindness 
and extensive charities have left a warm sentiment of gra- 
titude and attachment. 

The party arrived at Springmount on a fine summer’s 
evening, when the sky and earth wore their brightest 
looks, and the Oriels were charmed with the romantic 
beauty of the spot. Springmount was a castellated man- 
sion, standing on a gentle eminence, commanding a fine 


156 


view of the river and adjacent country, and nearly em- 
bosomed in woods, surrounded by high mountains, losing 
themselves in the clouds. The fine and picturesque 
mountains in Ireland never fail to attract the admiration 
of those accustomed to the tamer scenery of England, 
and add peculiar beauty to the landscapes. 

The apartments at Springmount were spacious, and 
fitted up with a due regard to comfort and elegance. 
Pictures, statues, and vases, collected during the travels 
of Mr. Desmond, who was not only an amateur, but a 
connoisseur in the fine arts, ornamented the salons ; and 
an extensive and well-chosen library offered resources of 
no ordinary kind to studious visitors. The principal 
rooms opened on a terrace of tesselated marble, whence 
flights of steps descended to the pleasure-grounds, through 
which the limpid and rapid river hurried along its impe- 
tuous course, never pausing to admire the beauties it 
reflected on its glassy surface. A stone bridge of one 
arch, finely proportioned, and ornamented with a light 
balustrade of marble, was thrown across the river, and a 
pleasure-boat was moored near a picturesque boat-house 
for the amusement of the guests. A sunk fence of wide 
dimensions divided the pleasure-grounds from the deer- 
park; but in wandering through the mazes of the former, 
the beautiful animals that sported free as air were visible, 
and gave a wildness and animation to the scene. Thrushes 
and blackbirds innumerable enlivened the umbrageous 
shades, and set forth their notes of joy ; and the lonely 
Philomel, at eve, was heard to warble her melancholy 
song, while the russet corn-creak, hopping like a par- 
tridge over the velvet lawns, repeated her clear, shrill 
cuckoo, which was echoed around till it died in distance. 

A repose reigned round Springmount that was delicious 
to those who had been shut up in the confined atmo- 
sphere of London. There is a peculiar lightness in the 
air in Ireland, which — whether it be attributable to the 
mountains, or to the Atlantic, we leave casuists to exam- 
ine — brings healing on its wings to the over-excited mind, 
as well as to the exhausted body; and the visiters felt 
this benign influence, as with elastic spirits they arose, 
the morning after their arrival, to wander through the 


F 


157 

grounds, and admire the taste and judgment with which 
they were laid out. 

They entered the breakfast-room as the bell summoned 
them to that repast, and found a table plentifully piled 
with all the luxuries that Ireland can furnish. Honey, 
bright and sparkling as topaz, raspberry jam that might 
vie in tint with the ruby, fruit of every description, and 
cream and butter such as Erin alone can produce, graced 
the board. 

After breakfast Mrs. Desmond and Mrs. Forrester 
proposed driving through the park, to show Lady Oriel 
the finest points of view ; and Mrs. Forrester requested 
that they might pass the gates and extend their drive to 
the cottage of Grace Cassidy. 

“ You have shown us some good specimens of English 
peasantry,” said Mrs. Forrester, “ and I am impatient, 
dear Lady Oriel, to show you our choicest sample in 
Grace Cassidy.” 

We pass over the drive through the really fine park, 
which had the usual quantity of stately trees to be found 
in old parks, but a very unusual inequality of ground, 
presenting hill and dale, and lawns intersected with 
groups of trees, with the river winding through them, 
and glittering beneath the sunbeams, like a vast azure- 
coloured serpent, coiling itself along. Lady Oriel was 
delighted with the views, and the country, and confessed 
that henceforth she should find all scenery tame that had 
not mountains to diversify them, so much did they add 
to the beauty of the landscape. 

Mrs. Forrester was gratified by the admiration her 
natal residence excited ; and acknowledged that, much 
as she liked England, she always, while there, felt the 
want of her native mountains, and hailed them on her 
return as old and dear friends. 

VOL. II. 14 


158 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

“ Now let us thank th* eternal Power; convinced 
That heaven but tries our virtue by affliction ; 

That oft the cloud which wraps the present hpur, .. ’ 
Serves but to brighten all our future days.” 

When the landau stopped at the little gate of the rustic 
paling that enclosed the garden of Grace Cassidy from 
the road, she arose from her spinning-wheel, and came 
forth to receive the ladies. She wore her dark hair 
combed back from her high and open forehead, leaving 
her long and jetty brows uncovered ; a small mob cap, 
neatly plaited, and white as snow, gave an almost Quaker 
simplicity to the character of her head; her kerchief 
crossed her fair bosom, and the ends were confined by 
an apron, that nearly covered the pale blue calimanco 
quilted petticoat, and left her small ankles and well- 
formed feet exposed. Her gown was of flowered chintz, 
the sleeves coming only to the elbows, and was open in 
front, so as to leave the petticoat in sight, the waist long, 
and the skirt plaited with fulness. A small collar of 
narrow black velvet lent additional whiteness to her fair 
throat, and black mittens half concealed her roundly- 
turned arms. She wore blue stockings, and silver buckles 
in her shoes ; and from her waist hung a silver chain to 
which was attached her pincushion, scissors, and key. 

Such was the holiday suit of Grace, who, anticipating 
the probability of the ladies passing by her cottage, and 
stopping to speak to her, had dressed herself in her best 
clothes, to do honour to their presence. The delicacy 
and grace of her slim figure, the piquancy and animation 
of her countenance, joined to her picturesque attire, ren- 
dered her a most attractive-looking person ; and Lady 
Oriel accused Mrs. Forrester for not having prepared her 
to expect so much beauty; declaring in French, to spare 
Grace’s modesty, that she had “ never beheld so pretty 
a peasant.” 

“Och! my honoured mistress and my dear young 
lady, what a happy day it is for me to see you back 
again! My very heart jumps for joy.” And seizing 


159 


the hands held out to her by the two ladies, she pressed 
them to her lips. — “ Sure, I could not close my eyes last 
night for the gladness I felt at the thoughts of seeing you 
this blessed day, and I thought to myself that joy can 
drive away sleep as well as grief, which I never suspected 
before.” 

- The naivete with which this confession was made, 
excited a smile from the ladies; and Lady Oriel, in 
French, requested that they would encourage Grace to 
talk, for her mellifluous brogue and simple shrewdness 
highly amused and interested her. They entered the 
cabin, or cottage, as it deserves to be called, and compli- 
mented Grace on its perfect neatness and good order. 
Everything was in its place, and an air of comfort per- 
vaded the whole, that was highly gratifying to her visi- 
tors. The perfume of the flowers from the garden was 
wafted through the open casement, and freshly-gathered 
nosegays adorned the dresser and the window sHl. 

When the ladies were seated, Grace pointed to the 
clock and said, “ Oeh ! dear young lady, that is, Mrs. 
Forrester I mean, for sure, though you’re still a young 
lady, it’s not proper for me to be calling you so, just as 
if you were not married ; every time I look at that ele- 
gant and beautiful clock, I think of you, and bless you ; 
and sure the blessing of even a poor simple creature like 
me, coming from the heart, can’t but do good. There 
never was anything that puts serious and blessed thoughts 
into the head like a clock ; wdien I am alone here at my 
work, it seems such good company to me, that I almost 
consider it like a living creature ; and when I hear it go 
tick, tick, sure it seems as if it was reminding me that 
time is passing swiftly away, and that I must not waste 
it. Then there’s its hand, pointing always to the com- 
ing hour, like hope, and only pausing a moment at that 
hour, and then advancing to another ; it’s like the time 
it marks, always passing yet still the same, for it’s us 
that change, and not time. Sure there’s eternity in the 
thoughts a clock puts into the mind ; there it stands, 
showing us all the hours we pass, each one of which 
brings us nearer to the last hour of life. But sure I’m 
forgetting myself, to talk so boldly before such gran(j| 
company.” 


160 


The ladies encouraged Grace, and she proceeded, 
“ Well then, ladies- I declare that somehow or other, 
that clock makes me think as I never thought before I 
had it — of how quick life is passing away — our hours 
and minutes are counted, even as are counted the hours 
by the steady hand advancing- round the dial ; and it 
makes me reflect on the necessity of preparing for that 
hour when, though we can no longer trace the warning 
hand of the clock, it will still remain to convey the same 
lesson to others. Och ! what fine thoughts are to be 
found in simple things, if one had the gift to express 
’em as one feels ’em.. The flowers that spring up de- 
light us, and fade even while we are enjoying their fra- 
grance. The trees, lately the pride of the fields, whose 
leaves wither and die, all seem intended to remind us 
that everything must perish, to reconcile us to the same 
fate, and to prepare us for it.” 

There was a solemnity in Grace’s look and manner, 
that not even her strongly Irish accent could impair; 
and Lady Oriel felt a sympathy for her, that no person 
of her class had ever before excited in her mind. 

“ How is your husband, Grace V’ asked Mrs. For- 
rester. 

“ Indeed then, ma’am, it’s finely he is, and quite 
come to his senses again, and stays at home at nights, 
and minds .his work by day, just as he used to do before 
he ever heard of them poor foolish Repalers. Perhaps it’s 
all for the best that he took that mad turn, though it did 
make one miserable at the time, for, sure, I was not sen- 
sible enough of my happiness, until I thought it had left 
me ; and now it is come back, I feel as if I never could be 
thankful enough to God. We are sad ungrateful crea- 
tures, and go on from day to day enjoying all the good 
that Providence sends us, just as if we had a right to it, 
but when misfortune comes, we then begin to know the 
value of our past happiness, though it only makes us 
more discontented with present troubles. How few, 
like me, have had the blessing to recover what they had 
lost ! and this makes me remember every hour with 
gratitude what I owe to the Almighty.” 

The blue eyes of Grace became suffused with tears, 
and as she wiped them with the corner of her apron, she 


161 


observed, with a smile, “There are tears of sorrow, 
tears of joy, and tears of thankfulness. Mine are the 
last, and they refresh me as the dews of heaven refresh 
the earth, and lighten my heart when it is weighed down 
by the sense of my own unworthiness and of the good- 
ness of God.” 

“ Grace, I have been telling Lady Oriel of the deli- 
cious buttermilk you used to give me to drink,” said 
Mrs. Forrester ; “ have you any at present?” 

“ Och ! it’s myself that has,” replied Grace, “for I 
churned this morning at the peep of day, thinking ye 
would be passing this way, and have kept the can of but- 
termilk in spring-water in the dairy. . Sure, if the lady 
would be so condescending as to taste it, I’d be mighty 
proud, and if you’d all of ye just eat a bit of my griddle- 
cake and kirkime,* it’s a favour, and an honour too, 
that I’d never forget.” 

The ladies accepted Grace’s offer ; who, spreading on 
a table a cloth as white as a snow-drop, made of the 
yarn of her own spinning, placed a wooden piggin, 
equally white, piled with kirkime in the centre, a griddle- 
cake at one end, and a jug of buttermilk at the other, 
with small piggins for the ladies to drink out of, and 
’wooden knives for the butter, — the Irish being as parti- 
cular to use wooden knives for butter, as the higher 
class of English are to use only silver. Grace waited 
on her guests with an alacrity and delight, that proved 
the gratification she felt at the occupation ; and Lady 
Oriel declared she had never partaken of a more delicious 
repast. . 

Grace wished to present the ladies with nosegays, and 
for this purpose would have plucked half the flowers in 
her garden ; but they prevented her, reminding her that 
they had such abundance at home, that they preferred 
seeing them in the garden. 

The party drove away, followed by the blessings and 
grateful curtsies of Grace, who remained at the door 
until the carriage had vanished from her view, and then 
entered, repeating aloud to herself, “ Was there ever 
such dear, kind, good ladies ? No pride in ’em, and so 

* Eggs boiled hard, and chopped in fresh butter. 

14 ^ 


162 


pleased with everything in my cottage, when, sure,* 
everything I have I owe to them. How I wish Jim 
could have seen ’em, seated round that table, prais- 
ing everything, and so condescending to me. But, 
och ! sure, I quite forgot to tell ’em about poor Mary 
Mahoney and her husband. This was very thoughtless 
of me, and shows the truth of the old saying, that when 
one is happy oneself, one forgets those who are unhap- 
py. Well, sure, I ’ll go and see poor Mary to-morrow, 
and then go to the great house, to tell ’em all about her, 
for I know she depends on me. What would she think, 
the poor dear creature, if she knew how I have neglected 
to speak about her ?” 

When Jim returned from his work, Grace told him 
of the visit she had received, and dwelt with delight and 
gratitude on the kindness of the old mistress, the young 
lady, and the sweet manners of the beautiful young En- 
glish lady. 

“ Is she as handsome as Mrs. Forrester ?” asked Jim, 
“ for, according to my notions, she is the biggest beauty 
of a lady in all Ireland. I say of a lady, Grace, bekase 
I know one that, in my eyCs, is twice as handsome, and 
not a hundred miles off at this moment. Faith, you 
blush, Grace ma-colleen, just as if you knew who I mean, 
though sure I have not told you her name.” 

“Och! Jim agrah, I wouldn’t be making comparisons 
between the two ladies, but what the difference between 
’em is, I could tell you. Mrs. Forrester looks as if she 
had never known trouble, and that tears had never filled 
her eyes, though she’s one that, if the trouble came, 
would bear it nobly, for she’s full of feeling. She’s like 
a fresh rose in full bloom, before the sun or the wind has 
faded it. But the other lady looks as if tears were no 
strangers to her eyes, for all they’re so bright, and that 
they had looked up to Heaven so often when troubled on 
this earth, that they stole the soft blue of the sky when 
she is letting fall the tears of night. One would like to 
tell Mrs. Forrester all one’s happiness, for one knows 
she would feel it, and rejoice at it ; but one would choose 
that English lady to tell all one’s griefs to, because one 
sees that she has learned to pity others, by having suf- 
fered herself, great, and grand, and beautiful as she is. 


163 


Mrs. Forrester, Jim, gives me the notion of an angel, 
and the other lady that of a saint.” 

The husband of Mary Mahoney had been tried and 
acquitted of the charge brought against him ; but he re- 
turned to his suffering wife with ruined health, the con- 
sequence of a gaol-fever, and totally incapable of work- 
ing. The poor woman, too, had never recovered her 
premature confinement, and continued in a languishing 
state ; both unable to make any exertion for their sup- 
port. Grace and her husband assisted them to the ut- 
most of their power ; but the broken constitutions of the 
luckless couple required many comforts which the Cas- 
sidys lacked the means, though not the inclination to 
give them. The Repealers in the neighbourhood, look- 
ing on Mahoney as a political victim, wished to identify 
his cause as their own, and made a subscription between 
them, amounting to a few pounds, which they sent him, 
with an inflated letter, expressive of their sympathy for 
his situation, their hatred of the tyranny and injustice 
that had led to it, and their determination to support and 
avenge him. This epistle was signed by the most pro- 
minent of the faction, with “ Repealer” added to each 
name ; and the subscribers were known to be the most 
lawless and ill-conducted men in the parish. 

When the letter and money were delivered to Maho- 
ney, he was in the greatest distress, undergoing all the 
privations that poverty can impose, with a beloved wife 
pining in languor before his eyes, and whom proper 
nourishment might restore to health. The poor man 
read the letter, and then laid it on. the table, casting a 
wistful glance at the money, and then at the pale cheek 
and attenuated person of his wife ; the purse which con- 
tained it seemed to him as if it held the elixir of life, and 
his affection for Mary almost triumphed over his princi- 
ples ; but a second perusal of the letter restored him to 
himself, and he determined to return the money to the 
donors. 

Mary watched the changes in his countenance, and 
asked him what the letter was about ; and when he read 
it to her, and told her his decision, she left her chair, 
and approaching the one he reclined in, pressed her lips 
to his forehead, and a tear fell on his face at the moment. 


164 




“God be praised 1 cuishlamachree,” exclaimed she, 
“ that you have had courage to resist this temptation ! I 
know it was for me that you looked so wistfully for a 
moment at the purse ; but heaps of gold could not give 
me the happiness that the certainty of your good princi- 
ples has given me.” 

“ Och, Mary, ma-vourneen,” replied the poor man, 
“ poverty is a frightful thing, for it leaves a body open 
to such temptations, and he who would remain honest 
ought, to keep away want, or pray to have a friend like 
you to prop up his tottering good resolutions when he is 
tempted. I have had enough of Repalers, and wish I 
might never hear the name again ; but their money shall 
not pay the price of our broken health and broken hearts 
— ^no ; I’d rather die than touch it ! You see they don’t 
give it, as good neighbours, to a poor and suffering man and 
woman, but they want to make me pass for a victim to 
tyranny and injustice, when I’m only a victim to my own 
wilful folly, in not listening to your advice, and attending 
to their wicked and pernicious counsels. It is true, I 
was not guilty of the crime laid to my charge, and God 
be thanked ! my innocence was proved ; but had I not 
been in the habit of going out at night, and, at all un- 
seasonable hours, of attending their meetings, I could 
not have been suspected ; so that all my sufferings have 
been brought on by myself, and what’s worse, my own 
dear Mary, all yours.” 

“Never think of mine, cuishlamachree,” replied Mary; 
“ sure, now that your eyes are open, and that our thoughts 
are the same. I’m a happy woman ; and if I saw you 
once more in good health. I’d have nothing on earth to 
desire.” 

The purse was returned to the Repealers, with a can- 
did exposition of the altered views and feelings of Ma- 
honey, who was voted by them a turncoat and a coward, 
and strongly suspected to be a spy ; a suggestion that 
only one of the faction had the good sense to doubt, and 
who made the simple observation, that a spy would not 
have declared his dereliction from them, as Mahoney had 
done, but would have imposed on them to the last. 

From the moment that Mahoney refused the aid of the 
Repealers, he became a marked man with them ; his 


165 


horse was houghed, his cow maimed, his pigs killed, and 
his garden, that spot which had been the pride and plea- 
sure of poor Mary, was uprooted, the paling destroyed, 
and every plant, flower, and vegetable, was scattered 
over the road. Mr. Disney, the venerable and worthy 
pastor, came to the assistance of the unhappy couple, 
and relieved their wants. A few of the gentry in the 
neighbourhood subscribed to buy them a cow, and allow 
them a weekly stipend until they were able to work; but 
this protection only drew fresh attacks of violence from 
the misguided men who had vowed his destruction, as 
Mahoney was now looked upon as the protege of the 
anti-repealers ; and each act of aggression committed on 
him was meant as an attack on the persons who were 
charitably relieving his wants. Threatening notices were 
found nailed on his dOor ; his humble friends and neigh- 
bours were warned not to assist him or enter his house ; 
and a very few days saw the cow given to him sacrificed, 
like the former, to the brutal rage of the vindictive rab- 
ble, leaving the poor couple nearly heart-broken by such 
a fearful system of persecution. 

Luckily for the poor Mahoneys, the family of Spring- 
mount arrived at this critical period, and Mr. Desmond 
having heard of the tyranny exercised by the lawless 
depredators over this unhappy couple, determined to pro- 
tect them. Grace Cassidy, who had never deserted 
them, in defiance of all threats, proceeded to their cot- 
tage the morning after the visit of the ladies from Spring- 
mount, taking with her, according to her usual custom, 
a basket of provisions. Even since ^the last visit, only 
four days before, fresh depredations had been committed, 
and the air of misery and desolation this once cheerful 
spot wore was painful to witness. The broken pailing 
of the garden lay scattered around, dead flowers and 
plants were prostrate on the earth they lately decked, 
and the eflluvia of putrified vegetables tainted the air. 
The windows were all broken, the parasitical plants that 
nearly covered the cottage torn down, and drooping their 
withered leaves in death. 

“And this,” thought Grace, “is the work of the 
friends of Ireland, the Repalers, who are ever to be traced 
by the ruin and destruction that marks their path. What 


166 


will be their next act of oppression and cruelty to this 
unhappy couple, to whom they have left nothing but a 
little life ? Is there no law to save us from such terrible 
scourges ? Och ! if the humane English knew only half 
what the quiet and decent people are exposed to, they 
would make some effort to save us.” 

Grace entered the cottage, and was shocked at the 
scene that presented itself to her. The poor couple 
were sitting on the floor, with disease preying on their 
exhausted frames, every article of their furniture broken 
in pieces and strewing the floor, and all their provisions 
trampled under foot. The same miscreants who had 
hitherto been persecuting them had broken into their cot- 
tage the night before, and completed this work of de- 
struction by breaking and smashing everything in the 
house ; Mary was half dead with fright, having expected 
every moment, during the stay of 'the Repealers, to see 
her husband and child massacred ; for it had been de- 
bated whether he should be killed or not, when her pas- 
sionate entreaties to spare his life had touched even theii 
obdurate hearts, and they departed. leaving the wretched 
couple exhausted with suffering, their household gods 
shivered at their feet, and their only child nearly in con- 
vulsions from excessive terror. 

Grace, like a ministering angel, tried to comfort and 
assist them : she made them partake of some of the pro- 
visions she had brought, and cheered them by the intel- 
ligence of the arrival of the dear good ould master, and 
all his family, at Springmount, who would soon help 
and save them. 

While she was yet holding out this hope to her poor 
friends, Mr. Desmond and Colonel Forrester, who had 
heard of the attack on the Mahoneys the night before, 
came to visit the cottage, and amply realized Grace’s 
promises ; for, no sooner had they witnessed the de- 
struction around, than Mr. Desmond declared he would 
remove the Mahoneys to Springmount, where they 
should have the protection of his own roof, and left the 
family overpowered by their gratitude, while he returned 
to send a conveyance for their removal. 

“ I well knew he would,” said Grace, “ for sure there’s 
not his match in the world for goodness ; and now, dear 


167 


friends, you may look on your troubles as being over, ^ 
when once you are lodged under his happy roof. Sure, 
Mary, you must let me make you a little dacent to meet 
the ladies ; and you too, dear cousin, pray tidy yourself 
a bit : though weak enough you are, my poor boy, good 
nourishing food, a good bed, and an aisy mind, will, with 
the blessing of God, soon set you and Mary right ; and 
as for the dear child, you’ll see how soon he’ll get well.” 

“ Och ! Grace, ma-vourneen, it’s yourself that always 
has words of comfort, and pleasant tones to spake ’em 
in, and looks of kindness too,” said Mary ; “ may you 
never require the services that you have so often ren- 
dered me ! But if you should, och ! ' Grace, it’s myself 
that would be a sister to you, for I feel as if it was the 
same warm red blood that set both our hearts a beating, 
and put loving thoughts in ’em. I never, as you know, 
Grace asthore, had the blessing of a sister, and you are 
in the same state ; often and often have I grieved for it, 
for sure one seems to be incomplete, and to be but half 
one’s self, when one has not the other half in a sister, 
who has drawn life from the same source, slept on the 
same pillow, played in infancy the same plays, prayed 
together to God, and for each other, and grown into 
womanhood side by side like two roses on one stem. 
Let us then be as sisters, dear Grace ; for much as I. have 
to love in my husband and child, I want to extend my 
love still wider. Sure God has filled our hearts with af- 
fection, and happy are they who have objects to share it 
from their birth, but us who have not sisters or brothers, 
the natural links in the chain of love, we must forge ’em 
for ourselves, and be to each other what Providence has 
denied to us — sisters.” 


CHAPTER XXVm. 

“ Some fiery fop, with new commission vain, 

- Who sleeps on brambles till he kills his man, 

Some frolic drunkard, reeling from a feast. 

Provokes a broil, and stabs you for a jest.” 

The cold-hearted and calculating Lord Delmore hur- 
ried from London, without one feeling of pity towards 


168 


the wife, even yet a bride, that he was deserting, nay, 
whom he had plundered of her mother’s gift. He re- 
coilexl from the remembered instances of her selfishness 
and frivolity that had come under his notice, as if he 
were free from such defects, instead of being pre-emi- 
nent in them, and soiled by actions, in comparison to 
which the errors of his wife appeared as virtues : thus 
verifying the observation, that the less goodness we have, 
the more do we require in others, and the less are we 
inclined to overlook their deficiencies. No compunctu- 
ous reflections visited his breast at having marred the 
happiness of a young and pretty woman ; and if any 
feeling was excited towards’^her, it was one of distaste. 

He pursued his course to Paris with rapidity, anxious 
to lose the sense of the humiliating exhibition he had 
made, vis-a-vis to White’s ; and forgetful that one of the 
advantages derived from our boasted march of intellect is 
the celerity with which scandal and gossip are conveyed 
from one capital to the other. The march of intellect 
is often confounded with the gallop of frivolity, and may 
sometimes be called the halt of reason ; and if we reflect 
on the avidity with which personal scandal, private anec- 
dotes, and mysterious innuendoes are sought after and 
propagated, we can hardly flatter ourselves that the 
“ march of intellect,” or “ general spread of knowledge,” 
have made us wiser or belter. 

It is the fashion to decry certain newspapers, and to 
hold up their editors to reprobation for the personalities 
in which they indulge. We believe ourselves moral, 
religious, and good, when we declaim against such pub- 
lications ; but we forget that it is we who give the taste 
for them, and the editors only administer to our appetites. 
If the taste existed not, we should have none of the pub- 
lications alluded to ; but we never blame ourselves, being 
content to blame others. 

The notice of Lord Delmore’s ruin arrived in Paris in 
a very few days after himself, and being copied into Ga- 
li^ani’s paper, “Le Voleur,” and “ Figaro,” drew on 
him an attention much less flattering, though more 
marked, than that which he had hitherto excited in the 
French capital. He found himself much less rechercliey 
though more stared at ; and was oftener invited to Le 


169 


Salon des Etrangers, than to the English Ambassador’s. 
Finding his time hang heavy on his hands, he by de- 
grees accustomed himself to pass much of it at Le Salon, 
and risked the greater part of the sum so dishonourably 
acquired at Rouge et Noir, with the general result of such 
experiments, the loss of it, and with it his temper ; a 
union of no unfrequent occurrence in the life of a gam- 
bler. 

An impatient, and equivocal ejaculation, instigated by 
the fate of his last stake, offended a French officer ; who, 
in return, applied an epithet to him that admitted of no 
doubt of the intention to in§nlt him. Angry words suc- 
ceeded, and a rencontre was arranged for the next morn- 
ing in the Bois de Boulogne, which terminated in the 
death of Lord Delmore, who fell pierced through the 
heart by the ball of his adversary : thus incurring his 
doom through the means of the theft committed on his 
wife, as without that money he would not have played 
at Le Salon, nor have had the quarrel which led to his 
duel. 

Lord and Lady Abberville soon made their appearance 
at Springmount : the former full of les derniers “ on 
dits” of the underlings at the Treasury, which were 
attempted to be passed off as extracts from private letters 
from the iruling powers ; and the latter “ big with the 
fate” of female reputation, and sending forth insinuations 
and implications of no doubtful import, liad the ears that 
received them been at all akin to the malicious tongue 
that uttered them. Her malice was so generally known, 
that when the mode of wearing bracelets in the form of 
serpents first came out, Lady Abberville was one of the 
earliest adopters of it, which gave rise to two lines that 
were very generally repeated in the circles in which she 
moved, the individuals composing them, considering that 
next to the pleasure of hearing an enemy attacked, is 
that of hearing a friend. The lines were : — 

“Of Abberville now you need feel no alarm, 

The serpent has fled from her tongue to her arm.” 

“ I have heard to-day from Lady Nottingham,” said 
Lady Abberville, “ who writes that Mr. Henry Vernon’s 

von. 71. 15 


no 


daughter is to be married to the Marquis of Tadcaster. 
What a mesalliance ! it is really shocking. Such a vul- 
gar family of parvenus, mais ‘ Qui sail se fair e aimer 
Vbapas hesoin (Taieux f and the girl, I must admit, is 
very handsome, though her petit nez retrousse is some- 
what objectionable. Lord Durnford, also, is about to be 
married to some citizeness of credit and renown, and of 
fortune I’ll be sworn ; for a man of fashion rarely goes 
into the city, except to his banker, or to search for some 
one who will entitle him to have a banker.” 

“ But Lord Durnford is already rich, and can have no 
temptation to marry,” said Mrs. Forrester, “ wholly for 
money,” . 

“ Qui sail, ma chere dame?"*' replied Lady Abber- 
ville. “ Men may have large estates, and green acres, 
but there is a certain board of green cloth, in the purlieus 
of St. James’s, that has discovered the secret of sweep- 
ing them away ‘ at one fell swoop,’ or dismantling them 
so rapidly, that the wand of enchantment never accom- 
plished a transfer of property with more celerity. It was 
to this great modern alchemist, that a ruined frequenter 
of his verdant table asked, in the agony of losing his last 
stake, ‘ What ! will you not leave me a tree to hang 
myself upon V the whole of his woods having disappeared 
during the season. Now I know that Lord Durnford 
was a constant frequenter at this transmuter of metals, 
and therefore I think it probable he has found it conve* 
nient to marry a rich wife : besides, I know that few 
men marry except for money,” stealing a spiteful glance 
at Colonel Forrester, “ and I rejoice that I was an un- 
tochered lass, as I could not bear to be married for my 
fortune, a fear that must always enter into the minds of 
rich ladies.” 

The whole party felt the malice of Lady Abberville’s 
insinuation, but it fell harmless on them ; and they were 
more inclined to pity the inherent spitefulness that led 
her to wound those whom it was her interest to conci- 
liate, than angry at the attempt. 

“ Of course you have heard of Lord Delmore’s extra- 
ordinary marriage, and desertion of his wife,” resumed 
Lady Abberville. “ His history is a curious one altoge- 
ther. I was much in his confidence,” (looking at Lady 


171 


Oriel,) “ and he has told me some very amusing anec- 
dotes.” 

The mischief-loving Cancannieve was disappointed at 
seeing Lady Oriel show no symptom of embarrassment 
at her insinuation, and therefore changed the subject. 
Lady Oriel had previously seen in the newspapers all 
the particulars of the marriage, and anticipating the ma- 
lice of Lady Abberville, had schooled herself to conquer 
every symptom of uneasiness, should the subject be re- 
ferred to. 

Having exhausted all her scandal, the indefatigable 
lady returned to the end and aim of all her present specu- 
lations — the barrack to be built, and declared that she 
“ had an architect ready to commence the building, as 
she was sure that, as soon as it should be erected, the 
government must see the necessity of purchasing it. 
The country was becoming every day more troubled : 
without the means of accommodating a large military 
force, it never could be tranquillized ; but strange to say, 
the Marquis of Mona seemed to be ignorant of the actual 
state of affairs, though she had endeavoured to enlighten 
him. The barrack was the only means of terrifying the 
lower classes, and civilizing the middling ; she had made 
herself thoroughly acquainted with all the intrigues and 
plots of white-feet, black-feet, agitators, repealers, and 
conservatives, and knew more of what was going on, and 
likely to go on, than any magistrate in the country, or 
all the magistrates put together.” 

Having finished her tirade she withdrew, much to the 
relief of the circle at Springraount ; and Mr. Desmond 
observed, that to her might well be applied the remark 
made by a poet on the gifted Madame de Stael, “ that 
she excelled more in monologue than dialogue, never 
allowing any one to speak but herself, though,” added 
he, “it is profanation to compare an intriguante to a 
woman of genius.” 

When Lady Oriel had recovered from the fatigues of 
her recent journey, Mr. and Mrs. Desmond proposed 
their making a tour to the Lakes of Killarney ; and the 
party set out, determined to be amused — a determination 
that we recommend to all parties about to undertake that 
perilous adventure, a party of pleasure — the progress and 


172 


termination of which are generally as little pleasurable, 
as though a spell was cast over the individuals compos- 
ing it. Such parties in general commence in idleness, 
and end in ennui, leaving aught but agreeable impres- 
sions of the sights seen, or of the persons with whom 
they have been seen. And why is this ? it is because 
people expect too much, and will not bear with too little. 

A bad day, or a bad inn, can eclipse the superficial gaiety 
of individuals tired of themselves, and depending for 
amusement on external sources; and in the frame of 
mind or humour such discomforts produce, and the agree--- 
able companions of the day before, agreeable from the 
exhilarating effects of sunshine and good accommoda- > 
tion, are looked upon as disagreeable and tiresome, be- 
cause we are conscious of being both ourselves, when 
we draw the uncharitable conclusion. 

The party from Springmount had predetermined to 
find bad inns an amusing novelty, and bad weather a 
bearable evil, in their own agreeable society ; and, con- 
sequently the expedition had little chance of ending like 
the generality of parties of pleasure. As they travelled 
with Mr. Desmond’s horses, they proceeded not as ra- 
pidly as travellers in search of amusement love to do, as 
it seems to be an understood thing that pleasure and 
rapidity of movement are inseparable ; people gallop 
through countries they go to examine, and leave them 
with a confused jumble of ideas, in which scarcely a dis- 
tinct notion is defined, the recollections being like the 
trees, hills, and mountains that they flitted by, one suc- 
ceeding another, and all vague, dreamy, and confused. 

They rested the first night at a country inn, and were 
more amused than disquieted at observing the bustle and 
agitation their arrival produced. 

“ Bill, Bill, arrah ! where are you. Bill? Can’t you 
run and get the bellows to blow a spark of life into the 
fire ?” said or rather screamed the master of the inn : 

“ Sure the la^es will die of the could any how.” 

“Is it the bellows you main?” said Bill, (thrusting his 
fingers into the uncombed locks of fiery hue that hung 
in wild disorder over his head,) “ sure it has lost it’s 
nose, and it’s no use thrying it ; sorrow’s the breath it 
will give.” And so saying, he luielt, and supplied the 


173 


place of the bellows with his mouth, until he produced a 
blaze from the turf that sent forth sparks of light as red 
as his own locks. 

“ Run, run for your life. Bill, and see what’s in the 
larder,” said the landlord, walking off at the same time 
to give his instructions. 

The ladies had retired to examine the bed-rooms, the 
windows of which looked into the yard, and saw the 
indefatigable Bill, aided by a bare-legged girl, in active 
pursuit of some poultry, whose cries bore witness to 
their alarm. 

“ This, I suppose,” said Lady Oriel, pointing to the 
yard, “ is the larder, and before us is our dinner.” 

“ Them devils of ould cocks is as cunning as a fox,” 
screamed the panting- Bill, “they’ll never be caught; 
thry the ould hen, Biddy, she’s not so cute, say some- 
thing civil to her, and she’ll come to you.” 

“ Chick, chick,” said Biddy, with her most insinua- 
ting smile. But smiles were vain ; the ould hen was 
as wary as her male friends, and nothing remained but 
for Bill to hunt them, and pelt them down with stones, 
hitting with a dexterity that surprised the ladies, each 
stone bringing down a wounded bird. 

“ Arrah ! stop. Bill, are you mad, you fool of the 
world ?” screamed Biddy, “ sure you were only to kill 
two, and there you’ve kill’d four.” 

“ I’ve a mind to kill every mother’s soul of ’em,” 
said Bill, “for giving me all this botheration, instead of 
letting themselves be caught quietly at oncet, when they 
know they must be caught at last.” 

The wounded birds were seized, their fluttering pin- 
ions broken, and their heads wrung by Bill, who desired 
Biddy to run into the lough, and pull him out two of 
them ducks. 

“ Can’t you do it yourself. Bill ?” said the gentle 
Biddy, “ and bad manners to you.” 

“Arrah ! how can I, woman,” says he, “ now that I’ve 
got my stockings on? Go in, Biddy agrah',* and I’ll give 
you a glass to warm you.” 

“ Here goes,” said Biddy, tucking up her garments as 
high as decency would permit, and rushing into the 
green slimy pool, designated as the lough by Bill, in 
15 * 


174 


which sundry ducks w^ere enjoying their verdant bath, 
which, as Bill often observed, was meat, drink, and 
washing to them. She seized a struggling duck in one 
hand, and placing it under her arm, whence it sent 
streams of liquid mud over her garments, she grasped 
another, whose screams and struggles seemed to excite 
her anger, instead of moving her pity, as she 'said, 
“ Well, divil mend your taypots, now I have ye in spite 
of ye’re teeth, and the English lords and ladies will 
know what ye’re made of before ye’re two hours oulder.” 

“ Success to you, Biddy agrah,” cried Bill. “ Sure 
yourself i^the girl for bringing ’em to raison.” 

Mrs. Forrester made the gentlemen laugh when she 
attempted a description of the scene she had witnessed ; 
and the ladies confessed, that notjeven their disgust at 
the cruelty the feathered tribe had suffered could subdue 
the laughter that Bill and Biddy had excited. 

The dinner was served in a much shorter time than 
could have been expected, and the quantity could not 
have been blamed, except in its excess, whatever might 
be said of the quality. A salted shoulder of mutton 
boiled, and called corn mutton, served up with cabbage, 
graced the top of the board ; a piece of roast-beef con- 
fronted it at the bottom : two broiled ducks smothered in 
onions flanked one side, and a spatcJiQook, which means 
a broiled fowl, faced it; the interstices of the table being 
filled with potatoes and pickles that seemed to have 
“ fallen into the sear and yellow leaf.” 

Bill seemed as astonished as grieved that neither the 
ducks nor fowls were touched, and could not resist re- 
commending them as being elegant and mighty tinder, 
an observation that called smiles to the faces of all the 
party. 

Hearing Lord Oriel’s remark to Mrs. Desmond that 
the beef was more highly flavoured in Ireland than in 
England, but much less fat. Bill, with a bow and a pull 
of one of his elfin locks, begged their lordships’ pardon, 
but the raison that bit of beef on the table was so lane 
was, that it was from a piper’s cow, who had danced 
away all her fat. 

The second course consisted of the three remaining 
slaughtered fowls, fried eggs and bacon, buttered greens* 


175 


roast potatoes, apple-dumplings, and cream-custards ; 
and again Bill strenuously recommended the fowls— 
“ Sure, if they’d only taste ’em, they’d find ’em beauti- 
ful ; there wasn’t finer in all Ireland, and a body might 
travel from Cork to Dublin and not meet with their 
match any how.” 

Bill had a motive for urging the guests to demolish the 
fowls, which was, that he had been scolded by the host 
and hostess for killing four instead of two, and was afraid 
of another lecture, if they returned untouched. “ Sure, 
my lords, I’m greatly afeard yourselves and the ladies, 
saving their presence, aren’t quite continted Avith the din- 
ner, for ye have eat so little.” 

Bill was re-assured by the commendations bestowed 
on the repast; and his appetite being excited by the 
dainties before him, he mentally promised himself to par- 
take a portion before they were restored to the pantry of 
the hostess. On removing them, aided by the active 
Biddy, he dissected, or rather tore the limbs from the 
ducks and fowls ; and having piled up a pyramid of wings 
and legs of ducks and fowls on a plate, covered with 
onion-sauce, he concealed it, pour le moment^ in the 
place next at hand, which happened to be the "bed- 
room designed for Lady Oriel ; and the savoury mess 
was put under her ladyship’s bed, breathing odours the 
least likely to charm a fine lady, though peculiarly at- 
tractive to the olfactory nerves of Bill and his friend 
Biddy. 

“ By the powers, Biddy my girl,” said Bill, “ we’ll 
have an eligant supper when they’re all gone to their 
beds ! and I’ll just lave the plate under the bed, till we’ve 
an opportunity of slipping it safe into some hole or cor- 
ner. But the divil’s in the misthris, she’s always poking 
her nose everywhere, and smells the taste of a rat, if one 
has only got a morsel hid in a corner ; sure many’s the 
comfortable bit and sup I’d share with you, Biddy my 
dear, but that I’ve no place to hide ’em, and am obliged 
to swallow ’em up, at the risk of choking myself, bekase 
the ould woman is always after my heels.” 

When Bill descended into the kitchen with only the 
carcases of the ducks and fowls, the hostess screamed 
out, “ Well, if this does not bait out Ban and Banagher! 


176 


— ten wings and ten legs all gone, and nothing left but 
the poor bodies of three fowls and two ducks ! Talk of 
aiting, sure it’s them English lords and ladies that have 
the stomachs, and could ait twice as much as the Irish 
gentry ! Faith they must be charged double price to 
make up for it; and if they dhrink as much as they 
ait, they’ll have a purty long bill to pay !” 

“ Indeed then, misthriss, you’re right enough, they’re 
the very divils for swallowing — wing after wing, and leg 
after leg disappeared ; sure I thought they’d never stop, 
they kept playing away at such a rate !” 

While Bill was speaking, Biddy entered with the 
plates, on which were the fragments of the small morsels 
of beef and mutton, the only part of the dinner touched 
by the guests. The hostess looked over the plates, and 
then, turning to Bill with one of her most fiery glances, 
“ Arrah, you tief of the world ! you gormandizing rogue ! 
did the English lords and ladies swallow the bones as 
well as the flesh of my elegant wings and legs ?” 

“ Faith and they picked ’em clane,” said Bill, “ and 
threw ’em in the fire ; that’s what they did.” 

“ I’ll never believe you, ye rogue of the world!” cried 
the enraged hostess ; “ sure such genteel company would 
never do the like ; and if they did, wouldn’t I smell it 
all over the house ?” 

At this moment the valet-de-chambre of Lord Oriel 
descended, followed by a footman bearing the pyramid- 
ally piled plate, which he placed on the table ; and the 
valet angrily complained that her ladyship’s room had 
been infected with the abominable smell of the onions, 
and that having tried to discover whence the smell came, 
Mrs. Marsden, her ladyship’s femme-de-chambre, had 
found the plate hid under her ladyship’s bed, and was 
now burning eau a brule to get rid of the dreadful odour. 

The cheek of Bill assumed a crimson tint, one shade 
darker than his locks, he saw that denial was vain, and 
was stupified by the detection of his guilt ; Biddy disap- 
peared, and the hostess, having thanked my lord’s body- 
servant, as she called him, for causing the elegant wings 
and legs to be restored to her, turned to the culprit, and 
shaking her head at him, said, “ No wonder, you car- 
roty-headed rogue, you’re so fat and plump, when this 


177 


is the way you’re robbing, and pilfering, and backbiting 
grand company, by making me believe they’re aiting me 
out of house and home ; no wonder you kill four fowls, 
you cruel-hearted baist, instead of two, when it’s all to 
put into your own hungry mouth ; I’ve long suspected 
you, and looked after you sharply, but now you’re found 
out, and here” (holding up the plate) “ are the bones 
that you said the grand company picked so clane, and 
then threw into the fire. Sure, if they knew that you 
wanted to make ’em pass for porpoises and giants in re- 
gard to aiting, what would they say to you ? If you 
had stolen the beef or mutton, I wouldn’t blame you so 
much, but my elegant ducks and fowls. I’ll never forgive 
you.” 

The inn was so small, and the partitions so thin, and 
the landlady’s voice so loud, that all her harangue had 
been overheard by the party from Springmount, who 
were not a little amused at this characteristic scene of 
Irish manners ; and when Bill came up with tea, looking 
ashamed and afraid, they could hardly conceal their 
laughter. 

“ How odd I” said Lord Oriel, “ that the landlady 
should make such a distinction in theft, as to be furious 
at his stealing poultry, and to say that, had he taken the 
beef or mutton, she would not have blamed him. Hence- 
forth Bill will conclude that beef and mutton may be 
stolen with impunity, and that poultry alone is forbidden. 
Strange people ! how difiicult it is for strangers to under- 
stand them.” 

Arrived at Killarney, they found the principal inn 
nearly filled by visitors, and had to take up their abode 
in the less-frequented one, a circumstance which, though 
offering worse accommodation, promised to afford them 
a better opportunity of judging of the national character 
in its native garb, than in the Anglicised hotel, where all 
was, or affected to be, a VAnglaise, with bowing, curt- 
seying, and obsequious host and hostess, mincing wait- 
ers, and smirking housemaids. 

The whole party were enchanted with the scene, 
which far surpassed all their expectations. The magni- 
ficent woods, fine mountains, and admirable lakes spread 
out like vast mirrors reflecting them ; and above all, the 


178 


arbutus, with its flowers and fruit, which here flourishes 
so luxuriantly, called forth their warmest admiration. 
Lady Oriel contrasted her present position and feelings 
with the painful ones that weighed down her spirits, 
when, a year before, she visited the Lakes of Cumber- 
land, tete-^-tete with her husband, shrinking from contact 
with former acquaintances, lest she should encounter the 
mortification inflicted on her by the heartless Lady Ab- 
berville. 

Supported now by the presence of two ladies who 
were considered models of every female virtue, her hus- 
band nearly restored to his former peace of mind and 
confidence, how much had she to be grateful for, and 
with what true humility did she return thanks to that 
All-merciful Power that had vouchsafed to save her from 
the consequences of her imprudence ! 

The day after their arrival at Killarney, Colonel For- 
rester encountered the Marquis of Tadcaster, who had 
arrived from England a few days before with his wife, 
on a tour through the South of Ireland. He informed 
Colonel Forrester of the death of Lord Delmore, and the 
circumstances that led to it ; and, while commenting on 
the profligacy and dishonour which marked the conduct 
of Lord Delmore up to the last moment of his life, he 
stated the good feeling and good sense with which Lady 
Delmore had conducted herself under such very trying 
circumstances, and added, that though her worthless hus- 
band neither had made, nor intended to make a provision 
for her, yet by the settlements made by his father, she 
now found herself in possession of a suitable jointure, 
which his creditors could not touch, but of which she 
immediately resigned three parts to the creditors, sorely 
against the advice and wishes of her father. 

“ My excellent father-in-law and her uncle,” said Lord 
Tadcaster, “ was so gratified by the whole of her con- 
duct, that he has settled ten thousand pounds on her, so 
that she is now independent of her selfish father ; but 
she continues to live under his roof for the sake of being 
near her amiable mother, to whom she devotes all her 
time and attention.” 

Lord Tadcaster asked permission to present his wife 
to the ladies, and Colonel Forrester returned to inform 


179 


Lady Oriel of the death of Lord Delraorc, to prevent her 
betraying any emotion on hearing it publicly announced. 

When the whole of his conduct was laid open to her 
by her brother, how did she shudder at the idea that this 
was the man for whom she had once entertained senti- 
ments of good will and friendship, and towards whom 
she considered her husband had been unjust ! “ How 
could I have been so deceived ?” asked she of herself. 
And this question led to a train of reflection, that ended 
by her consciousness that it was vanity, and the gratifi- 
cation his flattery and attentions aflbrded to that vanity, 
which had blinded her to the defects of this unprincipled 
man. 

How many of the finest qualities are eclipsed by this 
one passion, which, like Aaron’s serpent, swallows up 
the rest ; and how many sacrifices of principle, honour, 
and Jiappiness, are daily offered up at its shrine ! If there 
be a passion, which more than all others leads its victim 
into danger, it is vanity ; and against its indulgence every 
effort should be made in early youth, ere it has found its 
unfailing reward, vexation of spirit, shame, and ridicule. 

Lady Oriel, Mrs. Desmond, and Mrs. Forrester, were 
so much pleased with the Marchioness of Tadcaster, that 
they invited her and her lord to join their party, and stay 
some time with them at Springmount, — a proposal that 
was cheerfully accepted ; and having seen all that the 
romantic and beautiful country round Killarney could 
boast, they set out on their return to Springmount, highly 
gratified by all that they had seen. 

At this period it was announced that Lady Oriel was 
soon likely to increase her family ; intelligence which 
delighted her husband, and afforded the utmost gratifica- 
tion to her friends. Lord Oriel had long sighed for this 
addition to his happiness, as it had been a source of pain 
to him to think that at his decease his ancfent title would 
become extinct, and his fortune pass into other hands. 

The death of Lord Delmore seemed to remove the last 
trace of Lord Oriel’s uneasiness. That heartless man 
could now no longer cross their path, to awaken dormant 
retrospections and forgotten scandal ; and seeing his wife 
beloved and respected by all around her, he ceased to 
remember that she had ever been exposed to slander ; or 


180 


recollected it only to rejoice that she had recovered the 
place in society, to which her many virtues so fully en- 
titled her. 

The persecution that Patrick Mahoney experienced 
from the Repealers disgusted Jim Cassidy more with 
them than all the representations of his wife and friends. 
He declared he never would attend another meeting, and 
that henceforth he would stand aloof from them — a de- 
claration which filled the heart of poor Grace with joy 
and thankfulness. 

“ Och ! Jim dear, this was all that was wanting to my 
happiness,” said Grace, “ and at what a blessed moment 
does it come ! Sure, it was wrong of me, and unloving 
too, to doubt you after all I’ve seen of your good sense 
lately, but somehow or other I was afraid the speeches, 
and the cunning way them people have to make one be- 
lieve black was white, might get you back into their 
hands, and sure that would have been the death of me, 
and not only of me, but one more precious, dear Jim, for 
I’m in the way to be a mother.” 

“ Then God be thanked, my own Grace,” said Jim, 
embracing her, “ and you’ll see I’ll never vex or bother 
you any more. Och ! you rogue,” kissing her again, 
“ why didn’t you tell me before ? Sure you ought to 
know how glad it would- make me. I hope, Grace 
a-vourneen, the child will be like you, for then I’ll love 
it twice as well, as I know it will be a blessing.” 

A look of tenderness unutterable repaid Jim’s affec- 
tionate declaration ; and he vowed henceforth to be the 
best boy in the parish, and save every halfpenny he 
could, now that he was to be a father. 

“I never tould you, Grace, how often I was vexed at 
our not having a child,” said Jim, “ bekase I thought you 
might take it ill ; but sure it’s a bitter thing to think that 
a couple will be growing ould, with no one to love, no 
one to save for, and no one to shed a tear for ’em, when 
God takes ’em to himself. But now all this fear is over, 
and I’ll be as happy a father as any other poor man in 
the country.” 

Trouble ever follows quickly on the footsteps of joy. 
The day after the scene we have described, Jim Cassidy 
was torn from the arms of his distracted wife, and lodged 


181 


a prisoner in the same gaol where he had formerly visited 
his friend Patrick Mahoney. His former connexion with 
the disaffected and lawless men in his neighbourhood 
had rendered him an object of suspicion to the police, 
and the recent acts of violence in the vicinity of Cologan 
had awakened their vigilance, and led to the arrest of 
many who were less innocent of the offence with which 
they stood charged, than was Jim Cassidy. 

tFnfortunately for Grace, her husband’s arrest took 
place during the absence of the family of Springmount 
at the Lakes of Killarney, and she suffered all the anxiety 
and alarm such a circumstance was likely to produce 
until they returned. She had gone to Jim every day, 
and stayed with him in prison until the gates were closed, 
and all visitors excluded. The first evening, this sepa- 
ration was a dreadful trial to them both ; and poor Jim 
wept like a child when the turnkey led Grace to the.door 
and locked the heavy chain that secured it. But she 
conquered her own grief to administer comfort to his ; 
and smiling through her tears, said, “ Well, dear Jim, 
sure we’re like two foolish children, crying because we 
are separated for a night, when, to-morrow, the moment 
the doors are opened, I’ll be here to stay with you all 
the day, and every day, till the dear master comes back, 
when you may be sure he’ll soon open those iron gates, 
and send you home with me ; and we’ll both smile at all 
the troubles that’s now frightening us, and making us 
cry.” 

Grace’s situation increased the grief and anxiety of 
Jim ; he trembled lest her alarm might endanger her 
safety, and reproached himself bitterly for ever having 
laid himself open to suspicion by his former imprudence. 
Patrick and Mary Mahoney, though both ill and suffer- 
ing, had themselves conveyed in a car to the prison to 
comfort their friends, and it was a touching scene to 
behold the four mingling their tears together, but the wo- 
men smiling even through theirs to comfort their hus- 
bands. 

No sooner had Mr. Desmond returned to Springmount 
than he procured the release of Jim Cassidy, who from 
that moment became an object of suspicion and dislike to 
his former associates. He was pointed out as an informer, 

VOL. II. 16 


182 


— a term of reproach the most ignominious that can be 
applied in Ireland, and the most likely to draw down 
vengeance on the unhappy person who is the object of 
it. Not all Grace’s confidence in the goodness and 
power of Mr. Desmond could tranquillize her mind for 
the future safety of her husband, and she trembled every 
time he left her presence. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

“ oh! could I worship aught beneath the skies 
That earth hath seen or fancy can devise, 

Thine altar, sacred Liberty, should stand, 

Built by no mercenary vulgar hand, 

With fragrant turf and flowers as wild and fair 
As ever dress’d a bank or scented summer air.” 

Jim Cassidy had only been a few days released from 
prison, when Larry M‘Swigger came into his house one 
evening, and with evident symptoms of alarm announced 
that he had stolen away from the Cat and Bagpipes to 
inform them that the disaffected faction assembled there, 
were violent in their threats against Cassidy, and that he 
feared they would put them into execution. “ They 
say you are an informer, a turncoat, and a spy, in the 
pay of Mr. Desmond, and his Sassenach son-in-law, and 
that they will have vengeance on you and Patrick Ma- 
honey. I’ve often seen ’em mad and foolish ; but this 
time they bait out Ban and Banagher, and Ballinisloe 
into the bargain,” said Larry, “ for they have the very 
devil in their heads, ay, be my troth, and in their hearts 
too, and God only knows where they will stop.” 

“ I’ll go to the Cat and Bagpipes this very minute,” 
said Jim Cassidy, “ and confront ’em, for no man shall 
say that Pm a turncoat, a spy, or an informer and the 
honest blood mounted to the face of the indignant man. 

Grace seized him by the coat, and with an appealing 
look and a face pale as marble entreated him not to ven- 
ture amongst them. “ They are all intoxicated,” added 
she, “ and incapable of listening to reason ; go not near 
them, Jim dear, but if you wish to clear yourself of their 


183 


vile charges, wait ’till they are sober, and seek them 
with one or two quiet steady friends.” 

“ Sure I’ll go with him myself,” said Larry, “ and be 
spokesman, and the schoolmaster won’t refuse, I’m sure, 
to give ’em some more of his Greek and Latin to help 
him out of the scrape ; but at this present moment they 
are too tipsy and violent to listen even to the Agitator 
himself if he was on the spot.” 

Jim Cassidy yielded to the entreaties of his wife, and 
Larry began to relate the throubles, as he called them, 
that were disturbing the neighbouring counties. “Faith, 
things get worse and worse every day,” said he, “ and, 
the run on the banks has given the finishing blow to the 
poor people. The cattle and pigs are driven back from 
the fairs unsold, not a bill will be discounted, if it was 
signed by the Lord Liftenant himself ; and them that are 
suffering from all this, haven’t the sense to see that they 
have brought it on themselves, but get more desperate in 
their foily. If you heard the wicked threat’nings of the 
people at the Cat and Bagpipes ; they swore they’d burn 
the house over the heads of Mr. Desmond and his fa- 
mily, and set fire to his woods !” 

“ Och ! Larry dear,” said Grace, “do you think they 
are serious in this ? and och ! why didn’t you tell us be- 
fore ? Let us go, Jim, without losing a moment, and 
put the family on their guard.” 

“ There’s no danger this night any way. Mistress 
Cassidy,” said Larry, “ of that, I promise you, for they 
have not sufficient men to undertake an attack on Spring- 
mount, but that they intend such a measure I have not 
the least doubt, and think Mr. Desmond ought to be in- 
formed of it to-morrow. Little, he that has thrown the 
spark of fire among these mad and wicked people, ima- 
gines the mischief he has caused, and if he had heard 
what I did to-night, he’d tremble to think what he has 
done ; but gentlemen little know of what different stuff 
the minds of the poor ignorant people are made, and that 
though it’s aisy enough to drive ’em mad, it’s no aisy 
thing to bring ’em back to their raison ; they are for all 
the world like the elephants that Dick Mulligan tould me 
they have in Ingee in their battles, who often turn round 
and ihrample on those that drove ’em on, doing more 


184 


harm to their friends than their enemies. Sure they may 
say what they will, but I’ll never believe but what it 
gives many a heart-ache to the laider of the Repalers, 
to see and hear the cruel murders and wicked things they 
do ; but he can’t stop ’em, though he can make ’em do 
anything else. I’ve seen him, and known him, and be- 
lieve him to be a humane man, for God never gave the 
gift of fine thoughts and words to a narrow or a cruel 
heart ; therefore I wish he was now on the spot to listen 
to the mischief that’s plotting, and to see, that while he is 
thinking of liberty as a fine, grand, and elegant thing, 
that’s to bring blessings, and peace and plenty, on poor 
ould Ireland, but to get which some mischief and danger 
must be gone through, they are thinking of it as a some- 
thing that will give every idle fellow amongst ’em the 
power of plundering the rich, living without work, and 
having no laws, and that the mischief incurred to gain 
it, is only a foretaste of that they will have to keep it. 
This is the difference between a gentleman’s view of li- 
berty, and the view of a poor ignorant man. Their laider 
knows this, but he knows it would be useless to attempt 
making them feel as he does, and therefore tries to use 
them as means of carrying his point, hoping to be able 
to correct them after he has succeeded, which he has lit- 
tle chance of.” 

While Larry was yet talking, shout and yells, from a 
distance, struck on the ears of his auditors. “ They 
come, they come,” cried Larry, “ and if you wish to 
save your lives, let us fly from the house.” 

A look at Grace, and the recollection of her situation, 
decided Jim to adopt the advice of Larry, and snatching 
up a cloak, which he threw over her shoulders, the two 
men hurried the trembling Grace through the back door 
of the cottage, and by a short cut across the fields that 
led to Springmount; which they had hardly reached, 
when they saw a column of fire ascend the air, and heard 
the shouts of triumph of the infuriated rabble, as the 
flames spread wider and wider, embracing die paling and 
trees close to the cottage. 

Tears burst in torrents from Grace, as she beheld her 
cottage, the quiet, happy home where she had passed 
such blissful days, enveloped by the lurid blaze, and she 


185 


felt as if her happiness was destroyed with the home that 
witnessed it. 

“ Och ! Jim dear,” sobbed the poor woman, “ our 
beautiful cottage, and all the nice furniture that I was so 
proud of; our garden and lovely flowers, all — all de- 
stroyed ! And to think that in a few hours no trace will 
remain of all that was so fair and flourishing an hour ago 
—och! it’s too cruel!” and she wept in agony on the 
shoulder of her husband. 

Jim tried to console her, and observed how happy it 
was that they had fled, for that otherwise their lives 
would have fallen a sacrifice to the wrath of the incen- 
diaries. We’re safe and together, Grace a-vourneen,” 
said Jim; “and the same good friend that provided us 
with the cottage, can give us another; so don’t be un- 
happy, and you’ll see, Grace, you’ll never have any 
fretting in the new house, as you had in the ould, on 
account of my folly.” 

They gained entrance at Springmount, and Mr. Des- 
mond being informed of their arrival, and the cause that 
led to it, summoned Colonel Forrester and Lords Oriel 
and Tadcaster to consult on the best measures to pursue. 
After much consultation, it was agreed that to go out and 
meet the rabble, now that the mischief they had intended 
was perpetrated, would be unavailing; but it was decided 
that the park-gates and lodges should be guarded by 
armed men for the night, each of the noblemen, and Mr. 
Desmond, and Colonel Forrester, presiding at the four 
gates: and Mr. Desmond wrote off to Dublin Castle an 
account of the whole transaction. 

Lady Oriel and the Marchioness of Tadcaster were 
exceedingly alarmed at the danger to which they fancied 
their liege lords exposed; but Mrs. Desmond and Mrs. 
Forrester, who knew Ireland better, tranquillized their 
minds by the assurance that the passionate effervescence 
of the insurgents would evaporate with the fire they had 
kindled, and that when they had exhausted their fury, 
they would return to their homes. The courage of the 
mother and daughter, as displayed in the confidence with 
which they saw their husbands depart for their separate 
guard stations, was even more convincing than their 
words ; but the English ladies, while submitting to the 
16 « 


186 


emergency that required such a sacrifice of comfort on 
the part of their husbands, made elaborate comparisons 
between the comforts of England and Ireland, which 
satisfactorily convinced themselves and those who heard 
them, that a residence in Ireland was like Rochefoucault’s 
opinion of marriage, — “ sometimes convenient, but never 
delightful.” 

The ladies sent for Grace Cassidy, that they might 
gain confidence from her unsophisticated account of what 
she had witnessed; but the pale face, curved brow, and 
Vair abattu of Grace, were little calculated to reassure 
them. 

“ How good you must be, my dear Mrs. Desmond,” 
said Lady Oriel, “ to live among a set of people on whose 
stability of opinion you cannot calculate for twenty-four 
hours. To-day they love you; to-morrow they loathe 
you; and the change arises not in what they see, or 
know, but in the insidious dictate of some rancorous de- 
magogue.” 

“ Och, my Lady,” observed Grace, who overheard 
the observation, “ do not hate and condemn us, although 
appearances are against us. The same people, who have 
laid in ashes my happy home, would sacrifice days and 
nights to repair the mischief they have done, when once 
raison comes back to ’em ; I hate their actions when they 
are wicked, but I cannot hate them, for I know they act 
before they reflect. Sure it is difficult for an English 
lady to understand this, and to make allowance for ’em. 
But if you knew, my lady, what good there’s in their 
hearts, you’d forgive the mischief that’s in their heads. 
I would not be afraid to go before five hundred of ’em, 
if my husband was not exposed to their fury, for they 
are tender-hearted, though their heads are so fiery ; and 
when they see a weak woman before ’em, they will listen 
to her with more respect than to a regiment, ay, my 
lady, than to ten regiments; but I’m a coward for my 
husband, and tremble for him, when I’d disdain to fear 
for myself.” 

“ How sorry I am, my good Mrs. Cassidy,” said 
Lady Oriel, “that your neat cottage is destroyed! It 
was only yesterday that I was telling Lady Tadcaster 


187 


how nice it was, and we intended going to see you to- 
morrow.” 

“ Sure your ladyship was good and kind, to think of 
such poor people as us, and ’twas an honour we can’t 
forget; but I’m consoled for our loss when I think that 
this spite on the part of the Repalers, widens the breach 
more than ever between them and my husband, and 
proves his innocence of the charges brought against him 
of being one of them. No blessing comes without its 
price, and I bow with thankfulness to the will of God, 
happy that I have preserved my husband safe from all 
the dangers that threatened him.” 

When Grace retired, the two English ladies dwelt 
with warm commendation on her beauty and simple 
purity of character, and agreed, that Grace Cassidy and 
Mary Mahoney were as original as they were amiable, 
and of a more elevated nature than the female peasantry 
in England; commendations that were highly flattering 
to Mrs. Forrester, who was so partial to her protegees^ 
When morning dawned, the gentlemen returned to their 
wives, and despatches were sent off to the neighbouring 
towns, to inform the commanding officers of the act of 
violence of the night before. After breakfast, they all 
proceeded to the still burning ruins of the lately neat and 
picturesque cottage ; where they found Jim and Grace 
Cassidy weeping over the destruction of their household 
goods, and carefully collecting fragments of the destroyed 
articles of predilection as souvenirs for the future. Mr, 
Desmond assured them, that they should have a cottage 
even more convenient and pretty than the one they de- 
plored, and supplied with every article suited to their 
comfort; and Grace, while thanking and blessing him, 
in the honest warmth of her heart, only prayed that their 
new residence might look on the river and the mountains, 
for somehow she had got so used to them, she could not 
be happy without ’em. This request Mr. Desmond 
kindly promised should be attended to ; and Grace and 
Jim returned to Springmount with lighter hearts and 
more contented minds. 


188 


CHAPTER XXX. 

**Now for our Irish wars ; 

We must supplant those roug’h, rug'-headed kerns, 

Which live hke venom, where no venom else. 

But only they, have privilege to live.’* 

•* The destruction of the house and property of the Cas- 
sidys appalled the peaceable part of the inhabitants of 
Cologan, and excited the turbulent to still greater vio- 
lence. Notices and threatening letters were posted up 
at every side, and the Mahoneys and Cassidys were de- 
nounced, and those who harboured or protected them 
menaced with vengeance. Troops were sent from Wa- 
terford to preserve the peace, and Mr. Desmond called a 
meeting of the magistrates, to take into consideration the 
most effectual method of quelling the spirit of insubordi- 
nation that raged around him. A copy of the resolutions 
of the magistrates was sent to the Cat and Bagpipes, and, 
instead of producing the desired effect, only increased 
their turbulence and disaffection. 

“It is now coming to the point,” said Rattling Bill; 
“ we must conquer them, or they will conquer us : once 
rid of ould Desmond, and his English faction, we shall 
have it all our own way ; and sure the best way to be 
rid of him is to burn Springmount. Are we to let him 
take up those turncoats, spies, and informers, the Maho- 
neys and Cassidys, as if he protected ’em purposely to 
spite us ? No ; let us make short work of it, and burn 
the house, and all that’s in it, to ashes.” 

“ But what will our laider say to it, he that sets his 
face against killing and burning ?” said Gavin. 

“ No matter what he says to it,” replied Rattling Bill ; 
“ Onc’t the job is done, it will be no use his preaching 
to us after. Besides, I don’t see why, if we are to agi- 
tate, and kick up a row to please and serve his turn, we 
are not to kick up a row sometimes to please ourselves ; 
so I’m all for making a bonfire of Springmount.” 

“ Yes,” said another, “ and as we are about it, let us 
burn the new barracks that ould mischievous woman 
Lady Abberville is building.” 


189 


“ Ay, and her house into the bargain,” said Bill ; “ for 
she’s a rael bad one, that runs with the hare, and hunts 
with the hounds.” 

It was agreed that these misguided men should assem- 
ble at night on a certain spot ; first proceed to Lord 
Abberville’s, to begin the work of destruction, and then 
set fire to Springmount : and all this deliberate villany 
was resolved without a feeling of compunction in them- 
selves, or pity for those they had doomed to death. 

“ Now that we’ve slept on it,” said Rattling Bill, 
“ I’m glad that Grace Cassidy escaped last night, though 
I’d have been glad her shilly-shally husband had been 
broiled on his own hearth, as all turncoats and informers 
deserve to be. But she’s a decent woman, and a purty 
Woman, ay, and a modest woman too, and ’twould be a 
pity to kill her. When I went home and got to bed, the 
flumes of the whisky in my brain, and the recollection of 
the crackling flames and smoke in my memory, sure I . 
had a quare dream : I dreamt we were all around the 
burning house, preventing the inhabitants from get- 
ting out of it, when the roof fell in, and I saw Grace 
Cassidy rise out of the smouldering ruins, and float in 
the air, with bright wings to her shoulders, and a glory 
round her head. Grace has always a purty smile, just 
as if she smiled to please others more than herself ; for 
it’s melancholy like, though it’s so sweet. But in my 
dream it was ten times sweeter, and she said, ‘ Och ! 
boys, boys ! you’d destroy me, but I’d save you ! Turn 
from your evil courses, and repent^ and I ’ll be your 
guardian angel !’ Sure with that she smiled again, and 
waved her wings, and a perfume finer than the finest 
flowers filled the air, and music, the softest and grandest 
too that ever I heard, came by on the wind, and I awoke 
— and awoke to think with horror and trembling, that 
she was burned. I’ve seen blood shed, more than I 
ought to see. God forgive me ! But if you believe me, 
the thoughts of this innocent creature, destroyed on her 
own hearth, and by her own neighbours, shocked me 
more than all I’ve ever seen ; and the big drops of per- 
spiration burst from my forehead, and I seemed to hear 
her voice in every breeze. When I got up, and was 
tould she was safe at Springmount, I hugged the person 


190 


that tould me, and I’m determined now that a hair of 
Grace Cassidy’s head shall not be harmed : so mind, 
boys, that every mother’s soul of you keep a sharp look- 
out for Grace, that no mischief comes to her, happen 
what will ; for my dream wasn’t sent me for nothing ; 
and as long as she’s safe, I’ve a notion, as the dream 
said, that she’ll be our guardian angel.” 

“ Well, who ever expected to hear Rattling Bill mind- 
ing dreams like an ould woman ?” said Gavin ; “ sure 
nothing will surprise me after that !” 

“ I would not advise you to be after making compari- 
sons about me,” said Bill, warmly ; “ if I mind dreams, 
it is bekase I know that in sleep we’re more under 
the influence of God, than when we’re awake ; for our 
evil passions are not tormenting us ; and he that dare 
doubt my courage, or compare me to an ould woman, 
should not live an hour after.” 

“ You mistake me. Bill,” said Gavin, “ I’m no such 
fool ; sure I might as well doubt the daylight as doubt 
your courage ; so shake hands, my boy.” 

“ There’s many a man here,” said old Tim Rafferty, 
“ that’s as brave as Bill, no disparagement to him nei- 
ther, that has had dreams and warnings, and those are 
fools who slight ’em, so I’m for following Bill’s advice, 
and not hurting a hair in Grace Cassidy’s head. But let 
us not attack Springmoont, unless we have a sufiicient 
force, for them English lords and their servants, with the 
Curnel, and the servants of the house, make a great body 
of men.” 

“ I’m for letting the whole of ’em escape,” said Rat- 
ling Bill, “ and merely burning the house, for then we’ll 
get rid of ’em altogether without bloodshed.” 

“ Och ! sure if it’s onl}'- the bloodshed you dislike,” 
said Gavin, with a fiend-like smile, “ there’ll be none of 
that, when they’ll be burned instead of being kilt.” 

“ You’re always for the killing, Gavin,” said Bill, 
“ more shame for you ; but in this case we’ll be guided 
by the votes of all the party when we assemble together.” 

The family at Springmount and their guests, unmind- 
ful of the danger that threatened them, were consulting 
on the best mode of allaying the irritation in the neigh- 
bourhood, which the protection afforded to the Mahoneys 


191 


and Cassidys had so powerfully excited. Lord Tadcas- 
ter offered to give the Mahoneys an asylum in England, 
by appointing the husband gatekeeper to one of the en- 
trances to his park, and l^ord and Lady Oriel declared 
they would establish the Cassidys at Oriel Park. 

“ This willingness to oblige is very amiable,” said Mr. 
Desmond, “ but recollect if we accept your proposals it 
will have the appearance of yielding to the system of 
intimidation these misguided men have been so long 
aiming to establish.” 

“ But, dear Mr. Desmond,” said Lady Oriel, “ even 
an apparent concession is better than risking the lives of 
the two poor families, and exposing yourself to the re- 
sentful fury of the people.” 

“ Let us wait a few days before we decide on any- 
thing,” said Mr. Desmond, “ as I am in hopes the pre- 
sence of the military will deter the ill-disposed from any 
violent measures.” 

While they were yet consulting, Lady Abberville was 
announced, and entered the library with all the bustling 
importance that marked her movements. After the cus- 
tomary salutations, she began, “AJA Men, Messieurs et 
Mesdames, will you now acknowledge that the country 
is in a state of open rebellion ? I have been telling the 
Government so for the last two years ; but they are so ob 
stinate that they will believe nothing till the mischief 
arrives. I know, Mr. Desmond, that you have considered 
me as an Alarmist, but the events of the last few days 
prove that I have been right, and you wrong. All this 
comes from not having barracks ; I always said what the 
inevitable consequences must be, but I must say I have 
been very ill supported by the gentry in my neighbour- 
hood,” (looking spitefully at Mr. Desmond and Colonel 
Forrester,) “but now they are attacked in their own 
houses, they must open their eyes to the necessity of 
keeping up a sufficient military force on the spot, which 
cannot be done without barracks. Since I saw you, I 
have advanced rapidly with my building, the masons 
have gone on surprisingly, the barrack is now two stories 
high ; I’ve been almost continually on the spot, and have 
been scarcely an hour off my horse ; the fatigue has been 
overpowering, but when the country is in danger it is the 


192 


duty of every one to exert himself, and I know this bar- 
rack will be the saving of it, for bongre malgre, the 
Government must buy it. Lord Abberville has written 
an official account of all the recent transactions to the 
Premier, for the Viceroy seems so absurdly incredulous, 
that it is useless writing to him ; and this morning, on 
hearing that your house had been attacked last night, we 
sent off a detailed statement, as we considered it the 
duty of Lord Abberville to send the first account.” 

“ You have been somewhat premature,” said Mr. 
Desmond, “ for my house has not been attacked, as my 
friends Lord Tadcaster and Oriel can certify.” 

“ Well, that is very extraordinary,” said Lady Abber- 
ville, with angry warmth, as we were positively as- 
sured it had been. But if it has not, it will be, I dare 
say, which is a-peu-pres la meme chose, for my informa- 
tion is in general too correct to admit of my doubting it, 
so prenez garde, mes amis, and don’t count on your 
popularity, for I assure you, this is not the moment to 
remain quiet, when danger is at your door. I must be 
off to look how my barrack is going on, for the masons 
idle if I am not looking at them ; I make them work 
extra hours, which keeps them out of harm’s way, and 
I hope a few weeks will soon finish the building. My 
stupid steward has been trying to persuade me that it 
will not be fit for occupation for some months, but this 
is all nonsense ; I shall have it plastered and white- 
washed the moment the walls are run up, and shall cer- 
tainly advise its being filled with soldiers as soon after 
as possible ; and you, my dear Mr. Desmond, must as- 
sist my project with the Government. Adieu, adieu, 
mes amis;” and away went the intriguante. 


193 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

** In thy fair brow there’s such a legend writ 
Of chastity, as blinds the adult’rous eye ; 

Not the mountain’s ice. 

Congeal’d to crystal, is so frosty chaste 
As thy victorious soul, which conquers man. 

And man’s proud tyrant, passion.” 

Lords Tadcaster and Oriel looked at each other with 
astonishment, when they heard the tirade of Lady Ab- 
berville ; and when she had withdrawn, they mutually 
congratulated each other, that England was free from 
such women. 

“ What a nuisance she must be in a neighbourhood !” 
said Lord Oriel to Mr. Desmond : “ with all that extra- 
ordinary activity, mental and personal, that she pos- 
sesses, turned to one account, selfish aggrandizement, — 
I cannot fancy a more disagreeable voisine ; then her 
effrontery is so glaring, her want of veracity so remarka- 
ble, and her system of jobbing so odious, that she makes 
one forget she is a woman.” 

“ Thirty years ago,” said Mr. Desmond, “ she would 
be little disposed to pardon this oblivion of her sex ; for 
I date a dislike to me, which even her policy cannot pre- 
vent her from occasionally showing,' to my neglect of 
the charms of the woman — 'for, strange to say, she once 
had charms — a neglect which originated in the disgust 
excited by the manoeuvres of the intriguante. I was to 
have been ruled, as she had ruled all the rest of her 
neighbours, by blandishments or diplomacy ; but both 
schemes failed, and the consequence is, she has never 
forgiven me. Every time I see her approach my wife and 
daughter, oi: the wives and daughters of my friends, I 
think them profaned by her society ; knowing, as I do, 
the vileness of her character, and the mechancete of her 
nature. All this is universally allowed by all who know 
her, but by the assistance of sheer impudence, she has 
established herself in a forced position in society, though 
VOL. II. 17 


194 


she is as generally an object of dislike as of dread to all 
who come in contact with her. Of her may it be said, 

“ With that dull, rooted, callous impudence, 

Which, dead to shame, and every nicer sense, 

Ne’er blush’d, unless, in spreading vice’s snares, 

She blunder’d on some virtue unawares.” 

A poor girl, who acted as bar-maid at the Cat and Bag- 
pipes, and to whom Grace Cassidy had shown kindness 
on more than one occasion, having overheard the threats 
vowed against Springmount and its inhabitants, thought 
it right to apprize Grace of them, and stole out to give 
her the information. The dream of Rattling Bill, which 
made a deep impression on the superstitious mind of the 
girl, was not omitted. Grace having learned all she 
could from Judy Mulvany, hastily dismissed her, and 
betook herself to a consultation with Mary Mahoney on 
what steps it was best to pursue : the delicacy of both 
was deeply wounded at the idea of exposing their bene- 
factors to such danger, and they agreed that this reflec- 
tion was the most painful of all the sufferings inflicted on 
them. 

“We ought no longer to stay beneath their roof,” said 
Grace, “for never should I know a happy moment, if 
any misfortune occurred here, of which the protection 
afforded to us was the cause. Dearly as I love Colo- 
gan, and, God knows, its mountains, woods, and river, 
are, as it were, a part of myself, I would rather never 
see them again, than expose this dear good family to the 
risk of danger.” 

“But where shall we go?” said Mary Mahoney, 
whose energies, weakened by bodily and mental suffer- 
ing, were no longer capable of resisting as formerly the 
outrages of fortune. 

“ No matter, dear Mary,” said Grace, “ anywhere, 
provided that we draw not troubles on others.” 

“ You are right, Grace ma-vourneen,” replid Mary, 
“ we ought to go away, for it would be too cruel to have 
our benefactors suffer for us.” 

“ But how to screen them from the danger that threat- 
ens at present,” said Grace ; “ if we tell the Master, he 
will have all the soldiers here, who will fire on, and kill 


195 


the half, if not the whole of these misguided men. Och ! 
it’s terrible to think of, but something must be done, and 
done quickly.” 

After a few minutes’ pause, Grace said, “I’ll go my- 
self to the meeting, and speak to ’em ; but this must be 
kept a secret from Jim ; for he would either insist on 
going with me, which would spoil all, or prevent my 
going.” 

“Och! Grace a-vourneen, I tremble for you,” said 
Mary Mahoney, “ exposing yourself to the violence of 
these intemperate men. If I could go with you, I should 
be less afraid.” 

“Fear not, my dear Mary,” said Grace, “ I shall be 
in the hands of God, and being alone, and totally unpro- 
tected before ’em, their pity will be more excited than 
their anger. My only fear is, the not being able to work 
on their feelings, but for myself I fear nothing.” 

“ Let us pray to the Almighty, in whose hands is the 
issue of all,” said Mary, “ for He alone can touch the 
hearts of these stubborn men.” The two women knelt 
and prayed together, with a fervency known only to 
those, who have no hope but in prayers, and both arose 
with calmed feelings, and increased confidence, in that 
Power which alone can save. 

A thought had suggested itself to Grace. The dream 
of Rattling Bill, which seemed not only to have made a 
deep impression on his mind, but on that of some of his 
partisans, as related by Judy Mulvany, might be turned 
to good account. Might not a deviation from truth, on 
such a momentous occasion, an occasion when the lives 
of so many of her fellow-creatures were at stake, be par- 
donable ? and yet, with the purity of her unsophisticated 
mind, she shrank from a falsehood, even to work good. 

“ Och ! sure it’s like play-acting,” said Grace, to her- 
self, “and I don’t like it; but what’s to be done? I 
have no other means of saving ’em all, so God must for- 
give me, for taking advantage of Rattling Bill’s dream.” 

Judy Mulvany having told her that the party were to 
assemble at a field near the Cat and Bagpipes, at twelve 
o’clock, Grace determined to go there, and, as soon as 
her husband slept, to proceed on her perilous embassy. 

It may well be imagined, that the remainder of the day 


196 


passed not without agitation to Grace ; and when she 
retired to rest, she counted with impatience the mo- 
ments, until the heavy breathing of Jim should assure 
her that he slept. He fell into a doze, and she was on 
the point of stealing from her couch, when, at the ^rst 
movement, he started from his slumber, and muttering, 
“ Grace, Grace dear, don’t leave,” grasped her arm. 

She trembled with emotion. How strange that he 
should wake at such a moment ! and still more strange, 
that he should ask her not to leave him ! But in a few 
minutes the heavy breathing of Jim assured her that he 
slept soundly, his hand relaxed its grasp of her arm, 
and she gently, and with noiseless step, left her bed. 

The moon-beams shed their light in the chamber, and 
Grace, ere she had courage to leave it, paused, to cast a 
parting look at her sleeping husband. “ What if I should 
never see him again!” thought .Grace — and the blood 
froze at her heart! at the possibility — “ Och ! no, no ! 
God is good,” cried she ; and, murmuring a blessing on 
the sleeper, and a prayer for herself, s-he left the room, 
and sought a closet near to it, where she had arranged 
the clothes in which she meant to attire herself. She 
put on a white dress, and wrapped a dark blue cloak 
over her person ; and, having let herself out of the house 
by the servants’ offices, with trembling steps and a beat- 
ing heart, repaired to the field pointed out to her by 
Judy Mulvany, stealing along by the side of the hedge 
for concealment. 

She found many persons already assembled, all armed, 
and a quantity of combustibles, heaped, ready for their 
wicked purpose. The sight of so many armed men, 
and the precision with which they went through the 
different evolutions, at the command of Rattling Bill, 
aided by the reflection of her own utter helplessness, 
awed poor Grac^> and she trembled as they approached 
her place of concealment. But when Rattling Bill ad- 
dressed them, every word of his speech thrilling on her 
ear, and increasing the pulsation of her heart, as she 
listened in breathless suspense, her terror for those so 
dear to her conquered all fears for self. 

“It is decided, boys,” said Bill, “that Springmount 
is this night to be burned to the ground, but it is 7iot 


197 


yet decided whether its owners, and the Sassenachs who 
are with them, are to share its destruction : I have pro- 
posed to leave their fates to the votes of you all, so let 
those who wish to save them, cry ‘ yes,’ and those who 
doom them to death, cry ‘ no.’ ” 

A silence as of the grave reigned for a moment, it 
was as if each felt the fearful responsibility of his delibe- 
ration ; hope arose in the breast of Grace, but it was only 
to be chilled the next moment. As the cry of death 
struck on her ear, the moon-beams fell on the face of 
Rattling Bill, and Grace remarked that an expression of 
sorrow and disappointment paled his brow. 

“ Do I hear right?” asked Bill; “do ye doom the 
family and their friends to death ?” 

“We do,” was the reply, and her heart sank within 
her as she heard it. 

“ Now then,” thought Grace, “ is the moment;” and, 
casting off her cloak, she rose up before the party, the 
moon casting its silver radiance on her snowy drapery, 
and giving almost a celestial expression to her pallid face. 

“ Boys, boys, you’d destroy me, but I’d save you. 
Turn from your evil courses, and repent, and let me 
be your guardian” — angel, she could not bring herself to 
add. 

“ ’Tis her, ’tis her, just as she appeared in my dream !” 
said Bill, “ and she shall be heard.” 

A number of the men opposed her being listened to, 
and made cutting remarks on her presence ; — “ She’s a 
play-actor,” said one — “ Och ! she knows well enough 
what she’s about,” said another. 

But the personal friends of Rattling Bill, and they were 
the most numerous, insisted on her being heard; and 
Bill, with deep reverence, led her amongst them, forming 
a group of his most influential friends around her. 

“ Why have you come here, Grace Cassidy ?” asked 
Bill. 

“ The Almighty has put it into my heart,” answered 
Grace — “ Who amongst you, friends and neighbours as 
you have been to me since my infancy,” said Grace, 
“ ever saw me forget the modesty of a woman, and come 
before you thus boldly even in the light of day ? then 
may you well believe, that I would not now, in the dead 


198 


hour of night, venture alone, and unprotected before you, 
were I not commanded by a Power that quells fear. You 
stand on the edge of a fearful precipice, and can I, your 
own countrywoman, your friend, and neighbour, do 
otherwise than try to save you ? I forget that you’ve 
left me homeless, and a dependant on charity for a roof 
to cover my head ; I forget that you have stamped names 
of infamy on my husband, who has done nought but 
yield to my prayers of abandoning you — but who would 
never betray ; I forget that you are about to destroy those 
who have sheltered us in our hour of need ; I forget all, 
but that you are my friends and neighbours, and that I 
am commanded to save you. The troops are arrived, 
and are within call of Springmount. The family are on 
their guard ; any attempt to attack, or set fire to the 
house, must end in your total destruction. Be warned, 
and rush not on your ruin.” 

“She is right!” burst from several voices; “it’s no good 
attempting it! Sure,. she’s sent here by God to warn us ! 
Doesn’t this prove there was sense in Rattling Bill’s 
dream ?” 

Grace smiled at observing how well her plan worked 
on their superstitious feelings ; and Bill, no longer mas- 
ter of himself, cried out, “ Look at her, look at her! — 
I’ll swear there she is, standing just for all the world, 
bari’ing^ she has not the wings to her shoulders, as she 
appeared in my dream, with just the same smile, and 
not a step will I or my friends take against her advice.” 

“ That we won’t, that we won’t !” was echoed around. 
But Gavin, and a few more of the most discontented of 
the party, murmured that it was hard to have come there 
for nothing; and that, “ after all, ould Desmond and his 
Sassenach son-in-law were their enemies, and ought to 
be punished.” 

“ You know not what you utter,” said Grace; “but 
if you knew the goodness, the mildness, and the mercy 
of the master and his son, as I do, ye would lay down 
your lives to serve him, instead of being here at this 
hour plotting to destroy him. Whom did he ever injure, 
artd whom is it that he has not served? You have all 
turned against him, because ye are ashamed to look at 
his noble face and grey locks after your ingratitude. 


199 


Boys, boys ! where are the fine manly, honest Irish 
hearts that were an honour to the country — hearts that 
were full of love and loyalty ? — and what has Mr. Des- 
mond done to turn ye ? Tell me one single example of 
tyranny or bad usage that^ ever he has been guilty of? 
No, you cannot : but how many acts of generosity, cha- 
rity, and mercy could I bring to your minds ! I repeat 
to you that I am commanded to warn ye. I have done 
my duty, let the rest be on your own heads. I call God 
to witness that neither the family at Springmount, nor 
my husband, know that I am come amongst you ; — oh, 
let me not have come in vain !” 

They consulted for some time together, and the voice 
of Bill and his friends were heard, drowning those of 
Gavin and his adherents. A dozen of the former, headed 
by Bill, approached Grace, and addressed her in the fol- 
lowing terms : 

“ Grace Cassidy, we believe, and we have private rea- 
sons of our own for it, that you have been marked out 
by Providence to save us. We will follow your advice 
— no injury shall be done to Mr. Desmond or hjs pro- 
perty — and you may return, with the happy thought of 
having saved many lives.” 

A smile of joy and gratitude illumined the face of 
Grace ; and Bill again cried out, “ There she is ! with 
just the same smile, and all, barring the wings, just as I 
saw her in my dream !” 

Bill and his friends conducted Grace to the entrance 
at Springmount, with as much respectful deference as if 
she was the mistress of that mansion ; for, in addition to 
the respect her virtue, modesty, and courage excited, was 
now joined a superstitious reverence, attached to her in 
consequence of Bill’s dream, and her appearance and 
words so exactly corresponding with it. 

When Grace found herself once more safe beneath the 
roof of Mr. Desmond, she threw herself on her knees, over- 
powered by the various emotions she had gone through, 
and filled with joy and gratitude at having been made the 
humble instrument of saving the family, she poured forth 
her thanksgivings to the Almighty power that had guided 
and protected her. She arose from prayer with calmed 
feelings, and having sought the pillow of the watchful 


200 


and agitated Mary Mahoney, pressed her hand, and whis- 
pered, “I am safe, and we are all saved, God be 
thanked ! Breathe not a word of what I have done to 
mortal !” and she glided from the chamber to seek the 
repose her exhausted frame and spirits so much required. 

She found her husband asleep, unconscious of her noc- 
turnal ramble ; and as she pressed her pillow, she again 
thanked the Almighty for the security with which she 
could now court repose. 

When Bill and his friends left Gavin and his discon- 
tented associates, they looked at each other with bitter 
mockery. “ And so, after all,” said Gavin, “ we’ve 
come on a fool’s errand, and there’ll be no burning ; and 
all bekase Rattling Bill is turned out a dreamer, and 
Grace Cassidy comes here with her palaver to turn us 
from our work. Be my soul, this is what I call quare 
goings on ! I was thinking, all the time she was preach- 
ing to them fools that minded her, that I’d like to shy a 
stone at her and stop her potato trap for coming to spoil 
our divarsion.” 

“We must not go against Rkttling Bill,” said another 
of the party. 

“ No, no !” was repeated around, “ we will not go 
against him ; and you may say what 5^0 wdll, but the 
dream was a mighty quare dream, and Bill did right to 
mind it.” 

“ So he did,” repeated several voices, “ and we’ll 
stick to Bill.” 

“ But isn’t it too bad for us to go home like fools,” 
said Gavin, “ without having done anything ? Sure, I 
know a nice bit of mischief we could do, if we set off 
before Bill and the boys comes back, and there’s no 
dream to prevent it.” 

“ What’s that ? Tell us at onc’t,” cried a dozen 
voices. 

“Well then,” said Gavin, “ let us go and burn down 
the new barrack that ould cat Lady Abberville is build- 
ing ; she that’s making the poor masons work extra 
hours, but never gives ’em an extra halfpenny. Ay, ay, 
my boys, let us be off, and to work ; for sure it would 
be a pity to let all our illegant materials for setting fire 
be lost.” 


201 


The desire for executing this new project of mischief 
spread like lightning among the party, and ere five mi- 
nutes from its being first proposed, they were on their 
road to put it into execution. 

Having kindled the flames at every side of the barrack, 
“ Sure,” said Gavin, “ it’s a pity we don’t burti the 
house over the heads of the ould jobbers ; the blood- 
suckers, that’s been living on the plunder of the coun- 
try for years — ay, and often set us on to mischief too, by 
underhand encouragement, just for her own ends.” 

“ Yes, yes, let us set fire to the house,” cried all the 
party ; and they quickly proceeded to Lord Abberville’s, 
and as quickly set fire to diflerent parts of the house and 
offices, which soon sent forth a blaze, which was hailed 
with joy by the incendiaries. 

The flames increased every moment, and embraced 
every side of the mansion, before theinmates were aware 
of their danger. The servants rushed through the burning 
doors, uttering piercing shrieks ; but no one thought of 
rescuing the unpopular master or mistress, who awoke not 
until all retreat by the stairs was impracticable ; and they 
appeared at the windows frantic with terror, and demand- 
ing assistance with cries of distraction and anguish. 

Gavin mocked at their sufierings and mimicked their 
movements, and when some of his less ferocious com- 
panions proposed saving them by putting a ladder to the 
window, he would not permit it. 

A few minutes more must have been fatal to them, 
when a dozen men rushed forward with ladders, and the 
one who led them placing four at their base, and six to 
guard an open space, two mounted the ladders and res- 
cued the agonized Lord and Lady Abberville from their 
perilous position, amid the cheers of some of those who, 
a few minutes before, would have equally cheered the 
destruction of the persons now saved. Such is the mo- 
bility of the natures of this inconstant people ! 

Having seen Grace Cassidy safely housed at Spring- 
mount, Rattling Bill and his associates were returning 
to their homes, when the lurid flames of the barrack 
mounting towards the sky, attracted their attention. 

What can it be ?” said one. “ Sure, it’s in the di- 


202 


rection of Lord Abberville’s,” cried another. “ Let us go 
directly,” said Rattling Bill, “ and help to extinguish the 
flames.” 

They rapidly pursued their course across the fields, 
and arrived only in time to see the crumbling walls of 
the barrack totter and fall to the ground, and the mansion 
of Lord Abberville blazing in the distance. They flew, 
rather than ran ; and having seized the ladders in the 
garden, placed them against the burning walls of the 
house, and assisted the terrified Lord and Lady to de- 
scend. Rattling Bill was the hero on this occasion, and 
without his services the owners of the burning pile must 
have mingled their ashes with those of their residence. 

All their personal property was lost. They had not 
even garments to cover them ; and the wretched couple, 
covered with the great coats of the compassionate pea- 
santry, sat on the steps of the green-house, sending back 
reproaches to each other. 

“ Eh hien, Milor,” said Lady Abberville, “ you see 
what your obstinacy has brought on us ! I always said 
your continued betises could not fail to draw mischief 
and trouble on us.” 

“You forget,” said Lord Abberville, “ how unpopu- 
lar your eternal intrigues and manoeuvres have rendered 
you ; and I dare be sworn, that the dislike of the pea- 
santry to you, and not to me, is the cause of this fearful 
outrage.” 

“ Par exemyle,^' said the angry lady, “ I give you 
joy of this new discovery; but you always were hete, 
and hete you’ll continue to the end of the chapter.” 

The irritated Lord, provoked beyond endurance, cried 
out to the crowd, “ Tell me, boys, whether you have 
been instigated to fire my house by your dislike to me ?” 

“ No, no !” was repeated by nearly all the persons 
present. 

“ I told you so,” said Lord Abberville, turning with 
an air of triumph to his wife ; “so you see. Lady 
Abberville, it was their dislike to you that prompted 
them.” 

“ No, this will I never believe !” said Lady Abber- 
ville, “ for I know they despise you. Tell me,” said 


203 


the angry lady, “ what led you to the injury you have 
done us ?” 

“ Why then, if you must know,” said Rattling Bill, 
“ it was contempt of your husband, and dislike of your- 
self. We havefcoked upon him as a weak fool in your 
hands, but we’ve considered you as something worse — 
an artful, designing rogue.” 

The rage of both may be easily imagined : that of the 
husband was the rtiore concentrated ; but the anger of 
the wife evaporated in speculations of the claim this out- 
rage would give them on the government. 

“ Mind, Lord Abberville,” said Miladi ; “ that you 
swear all my diamonds, ‘the family diamonds,’ were 
destroyed : few people know, that they were melted 
long ago, and that paste supplied their place ; you must, 
therefore, talk of their value, with a lengthened face, and 
a woful shake of the head. The plate, the ‘ family 
plate,’ too, must figure in alto relievo in our schedule of 
losses : you must dwell on the quantity and massiveness 
of it ; you cannot say too much, for recollect you are 
only making a substantive of what was merely a partici- 
ple ; and between plate and plated there is little differ- 
ence, except to the buyer and seller. If you play your 
cards well, we may turn this night’s adventure to a pro- 
fitable account, and a burned house may prove a richer 
argosy than we have ever yet freighted. Our picture 
gallery, (with half-a-dozen vile copies,) our library, (with 
a hundred or two bad novels,) may be ad infinitum 
swelled into a collection of splendid pictures, as unique 
from their quantity as their quality ; and the books, the 
combined researches of generations, of the literature of 
all countries. Our furniture, (the ruined heir-looms of 
our ancestors,) unseemly to sight, and unfit for use, may 
be magnified into the most costly and elegant meubles, 
uniting the splendour of the reign of Louis Quatorze, 
with all the convenience of modern refinement. I hope 
our remise and ecuries are burnt down, for that will 
allow of our adding the splendid establishment of horses, 
(consisting of two hacks, and a pair of spavined carriage- 
horses,) to the list of our losses, with the elegant car- 
riages, for which Lord and Lady Abberville had long 
been distinguished.” 


204 


Heartless as was Lord Aberville, he shrank from the 
calculating coldness of his wife, who, in a few minutes 
after her escape from a fearful death, was plotting the 
falsehoods, most likely to render the plunger she had 
escaped from, profitable ; but the intriguante had as 
completely lost sight of past danger, in her plans of ren- 
dering it advantageous to her future prospects, as if it 
had occurred years, instead of a few minutes before. 

The moment the roof fell in with a crash, Gavin and 
his friends shouted in triumph, and, the work of destruc- 
tion being now completed, retired from the scene of 
action. Little did they imagine that the mistress of the 
burning ruins hailed their destruction with even more 
joy than they did ; had they suspected it, their triumph 
would have been damped. 

A servant was despatched to Springmount to announce 
the catastrophe that had taken place ; in due time a car- 
riage, laden with pelisses and great coats, arrived to bear 
the Lord and Lady to the hospitable roof of Mr. Des- 
mond, where they experienced all the kindness to which 
their circumstances, rather than their merits, entitled 
them. 

Before leaving his dressing-room next morning, a let- 
ter was delivered to Mr. Desmond from Rattling Bill, in 
which, with the frankness that characterized his nature, 
he detailed the intentions of the Repealers to set fire to 
Springmount the night before, and to sacrifice its inha- 
bitants to the flames. He stated that to the courageous 
conduct of Grace Cassidy they owed their safety, and 
that, knowing the modesty of her feelings, a sense of 
justice prevented him from allowing the part she had 
taken in the last night’s adventures to remain concealed. 

“ Grace Cassidy has opened my eyes,” wrote Bill, 
“ to the delusion 1 have indulged in, when I believed 
you, honoured Sir, to be our enemy. The veil has 
dropped from my sight, and I deplore my errors ; but, 
having violated the laws, I fly from Ireland, to seek in 
America that peace which my own folly has deprived 
me of here. Before I go, I have exacted a promise from 
those over whom I had influence, never to harm you or 
yours ; I know they will be faithful to it, and ,1 also 


205 


know that you will repay the pure and fearless woman 
who has saved your lives, and preserved from crime, 

“ Your now faithful servant, 

^ “ Bill Donovan.” 

Mr. Desmond sent to Grace Cassidy to meet him in 
the library, as soon as he had perused Rattling Bill’s 
letter, and when he saw the diffident looks and bashful 
countenance of Grace, as she presented herself before 
him, he could hardly believe that it was this timid wo- 
man who had braved the presence of a riotous rabble the 
night before, to save him and his family. 

“ Grace,” said Mr. Desmond, taking her hand, “ I 
know all that you did last night, and I shall never forget 
It.” 

“ Och ! dear master,” said Grace, her cheeks becom- 
ing suffused with a tint that rivalled the rose, “ who 
tould you ? Sure it was nothing at all, for what was a 
life like mine compared to yours, and the dear Mistress 
and Mrs. Forrester’s ? and then it was worth while risk- 
ing twenty lives to show these poor misguided men that 
they were wrong. Excuse my freedom for daring to 
speak so boldly before you, honoured Sir, but after my 
husband and your dear blessed family, sure I feel my 
next duty is to my poor misguided, but always dear 
countrymen. The most insignificant person may serve 
his country, as the mouse gave liberty to the lion by 
gnawing the meshes of the net that entangled him, and 
therefore I took courage to speak the truth to those I 
love.” 

“ Come with me, my good Grace, to the breakfast- 
room,” said Mr. Desmond, “ that all the company may 
know to whom they owe their lives.” 

“ Och ! please. Sir, to excuse me,” said Grace, “ I 
only did my duty, and, above all, my husband does not 
yet know that I left his side last night, and I beg, ho- 
noured Sir, you will not mention it till he knows it.” 

Mr. Desmond sent for Jim Cassidy, that he might 
have the pleasure of telling him of the heroism and admi- 
rable conduct of his wife ; though Grace blushed a rosy 
red, when the master lavished on her the epithet she so 
well deserved. 

VOL. II. 


18 


206 


But no sooner was Jim made sensible of what she had 
done, to the details of which he listened with open eyes, 
ears, and mouth, than he ran to Grace, and falling on his 
knees, while the tears coursed each Qi^her down his 
cheeks, he exclaimed, his voice broken by sobs, “ Yes, 
Sir, she’s a blessed woman, and a guardian angel to all 
’|he loves ; but I, I’m not worthy to belong to her, and 
I know it, I feel it, for all she’s so loving and kind to 
me.” 

Grace, unrestrained by the presence of Mr. Desmond, 
threw herself into the arms of her husband, and, while 
pressing him to her heart, said, “ Don’t say so, dear, 
dear Jim, for if there’s more good in my heart than in 
the hearts of other women, it’s the warm love for you 
that has brought it out, just as the sun brings out the 
flowers of the earth.” 

Mr. Desmond insisted on leading Grace to the break- 
fast-room, where he briefly informed the party that, if 
they were all assembled there in safety, they owed it to 
the heroism of Grace Cassidy. The compliments and 
commendations she received on all sides, deeply embar- 
rassed her; but the warm shakes of the hand of the dear 
ould mistress, Mrs. Forrester, and Ladies Oriel and Tad- 
caster, encouraged her. 

Lady Abberville interrupted their commendations, to 
reproach Grace for not having saved her house and pro- 
perty, instead of allowing her diamonds, plate, furniture, 
pictures, library, horses, and carriages, to be consumed. 

Mr. and Mrs. Desmond looked at her with astonish- 
ment, at hearing the recapitulation of this catalogue rai- 
sonnet of her losses, having frequently observed the 
paucity of even the common comforts of life in her man- 
sion ; and both felt inclined to smile, as the speculation 
of the intriguante was exposed to them. 

Mr. Desmond and Colonel Forrester fixed a comfort- 
able annuity on Grace Cassidy, her husband, and their 
future offspring: and the Lords and Ladies Tadcaster and 
Oriel subscribed a considerable sum to be vested for her 
use. But, when Grace heard of it, she entreated that it 
might be appropriated to the wants of Patrick and Mary 
Mahoney, charged with a small provision for Larry 
M‘Swigger. 


207 


This generosity increased the admiration the whole 
party felt for her; and though her wishes of providing 
for the Mahoneys and Larry M‘Swigger were carried 
into effect, her benefactors insisted that the sum they had 
subscribed for ^ Gtace should be appropriated wholly to 
her use. 

Lady Oriel and Mrs. Forrester, in due time, gave birth 
to sons ; Lord Oriel’s restored happiness soon banished 
his too great susceptibility, and he is now considered to 
be one of the happiest husbands in England, as is Lady 
Oriel one of the happiest wives. 

Lady Tadcaster is pronounced to be as faultless a wife 
as daughter, and her friends rejoice in her happiness; 
and Lady Delmore is once more on the point of approach- 
ing the hymeneal altar, with better prospects of happi- 
ness, being led to it by the good Duke of Bridgenorth. 
Grace Cassidy has given birth to a daughter, to whom 
Lady Oriel and Mrs. Forrester stood sponsors, and the 
village of Cologan looks, and is, more flourishing than 
ever. 

Repealers are no more heard of; they have died a 
natural death : and the Union between England and Ire- 
land bids fair to become every day more indissoluble, by 
the strengthening of the strongest of all bonds of union — 
favours conferred, and gratitude excited. 


THE END. 







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